Garden of Eden
by Harlequin Sequins
Summary: Smike is saved by an affluent family and he finds himself enthralled by the lives around him: his brave mistress, her enigmatic father, the witty manservant, the boisterous housemaid and a family friend who seems to have his own agenda...Smike/OC AU.
1. Chapter I: Rescue

Author's Notes: So, here is my pet project...the little period piece that I told all of you that I was working so diligently and secrelty on. Well, it's not so little chapterwise, but...the story is small, only four chapters, if decide not to add an Epilogue. Tada! Here it is! And, yes, it is a story that will be centered around Smike, who is one of my favorite Dickens characters and also the most tragic - if you do not like him, if only a little or not at all, I'd ah...suggest leaving straight away. Because this is ALL about him, pre-Nicholas era. :)

In any case, I'll confess that I'm very nervous about posting this first chapter here before I am completely done with the last (which I have not yet begun working on as of yet) for three reasons. Firstly, it took me a month to write and that is a lot of time to be spent on one short piece of writing. Two, it is written in an Austen-esque style, to fit the time period in which it is written, and I'm afraid not many of my regulars would be interested in reading long-winded talking and such. Third, I'm afraid that I've put too much heart and soul into it and it will be ignored completely. So this is my small letter of resignation before I let you begin reading. If you want to say something....critical of the piece, please don't resort to flaming me. I've worked so very hard on this...I can take con-crit but flames...it would break me. :(

Anyway, the title is metaphorical, and you will see why later. The characters will be developed later too, and also the plot, which is, yes, focused on a love story for a character that has no love story in canon-verse. It's AU, even if it's more prequel-like than anything, because I wanted to see this character have something beautiful for at least a little while....

And that concludes my rather long author's note. Feedback is certainly welcomed, if you would not mind putting a little comment in at the end when you're done reading. Also, I will post, later, a link that shows what my characters and Dickens' characters will look like in the story...if you're wondering at all. If not, that's fine...you can just ingore this little tidbit here and move on to the story, since I've nervously rambled for about three paragraphs.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer - I do not own Smike or Wackford Squeers Jr. as they belong to the great and venerable Charles Dickens. I do, however, own my original characters, in order of appearance - Alfred Redgrave, Cecilia Redgrave, Lettie, Benedict and Nathaniel Pickett.

* * *

_Mr. Alfred Redgrave, in the quaint countryside near the village of Dotheboys in Yorkshire, was otherwise respected for his cordial disposition and vast wit in terms of pleasant conversation. For years prior to his unsettling marriage, which had been received by his rather small circle of acquaintances as 'the conception of ruination' or 'a wittily conceived plan to have us all positively ripe for a good joke', he had socialized with rather vapid company._

_His social circle was comprised of pompous physicians, apothecaries and attorneys, all within walking distance of their early retirement. Completing their frontages as gentlemen, on their arms they dangled petty wives, creatures wrought only of loveliness. Their main concern, for these women, was the reception of good gossip to share with their equally paltry neighbors over fine tea cups and on their best doilies sat the most exquisite cakes._

_Mr. Redgrave, however, took no wife of this nature, and that was where the the doubt of his peers first took root._

_Before the contrived 'ruination', Alfred Redgrave was a renowned physician and prided upon his love of logic and reasoning, which he desired above all else, especially in regards to a patient that had been deemed as an otherwise lost cause._

_This profession was the result of mere afterthought, being the son of a well-received gentleman with five thousand pounds a year, as Mr. Redgrave could hardly settle into any lifestyle that presented its fair share of was certainly not partial toward the prospect of being an indolent gentleman all his days. He could not become comfortable with living only for socialization and the refreshing conversation of dinner guests. _

_In fact, he was so underwhelmed by the concept that, upon his turning of age, invested some portion of his inheritance into a fine education, by which time he was interested in becoming a man of medicine._

_During the long years of study, social gatherings had become a petty diversion, and though received with some condemnation on his behalf, were greeted with smiles and all interest in regards to allowing himself some repose from studiousness. His wit was heartily received, and had become the central hub of most gatherings by the tender age of one and twenty; for in the country, after retirement, there was hardly good company to be had._

_A great deal of his prime was devoted to this ominous realm of desperation, in which he would study, closely, the true valiance of the human soul in times which seemed utterly hopeless. Not once did he turn his head to one pretty maid who would lavish her affections on him with fine letters and words of praise; all of them seemed much too silly for his taste, and the only logical conclusion, after so many encounters with ridiculous girls, he wrote them off completely as being 'asinine creatures' and 'the very essence of childish mockery'._

_That was, until, he met his future wife who, in the days to come, would become the pinnacle of happiness in his life._

_It had been a rather gloomy day. Not a speck of beauty promised in the dull, gray sky and the lush grasses which covered the hills in their vivid colors, sprinkled with wildflowers, seemed heavy and tired with dew. Mr. Redgrave had been sent for, after a rather treacherous fever had taken hold of one of Farmer Gray's eldest daughters. And upon discovering that it was, in fact, merely a trifling cold that had taken its course for the worse, he found himself entirely uninterested in the medical aspects of the house call – but was, by no means, weary of the lady herself._

_For the entirety of three days, Redgrave had tended to her, and in the weeks that followed after her recovery, appeared at their rather forlorn door with every hope of seeing her once again. To him, she was a marvelous masterpiece – lovely, intriguing, and had acquired an affinity for discussing the dichotomy of love and logic on their long walks across the village countryside. In a matter of a few months, Alfred had summoned the courage to confess his love for her, marry her, and whisk her away to the manor of his inheritance, upon his father's death a few years before. _

_With her arrival, the manor began to show sparks of life in its once dull walls and lackluster tapestry, and their laughter and merriment filled the empty spaces, high toward the elegant ceilings._

_Young Cecilia, their first and only daughter, was born upon the next year – taking the life of her poor mother upon her birth. At first, Alfred could hardly spare a look at the small creature, in fear of realizing the verity of the death of his dearest wife. But as Cecilia blossomed in her childhood, so did her personality. The same affection for romance and pirates and the mysterious beauty of life became apparent in the dear little girl, whose golden curls and adoring eyes were the mirror image of her mother's._

_And as the years passed, the agonizing yearning for his wife allayed, settling into one aching realization that he would never see her again._

_Nonetheless, it was a comfort knowing he had kept a piece of her there with him._

* * *

_Little Cecilia…_

For as long as could be remembered, Cecilia Redgrave had been constantly surrounded by her father's servants. There was never a time without them, for the days and nights were filled with a variety of company; tall ones and thin ones, and short ones and fat ones. And then there were the colors, colors that, as a child, had perplexed Cecilia completely – silver-haired, as her father, scarlet-haired, russet-haired and flaxen-haired, just as her.

She had often mustered up enough pluck to venture up to this menagerie of colors and sizes, who at first she'd thought were a variation of fantastic creatures in her youth, and ask them, '_please sir...how ever did you find such scarlet to put in your hair?'._

Mostly, the answers were almost always more of the same, and almost always bored her. '_Why, little miss…it seems as if God made me that way'_.

And then, once, a man whose name she had never learned appeared mysteriously at the manor, with only a knapsack on his arm and clothes on his back to account for his meager subsistence in the world. His skin was the most exotic color she'd seen yet, and her curiosity found the better parts of her and dredged them up from deep within her innocent child's mind.

"_Please sir!"_ She had tugged lightly on his tattered, windswept sleeve. _"Pray, tell me why is your skin such a pretty dark?"_

"_Why, child,"_ His chuckle was deep and his voice rumbled like thick strands of thunder. _"God made me this way."_

Again, she was disappointed in such a lackluster explanation for all the variation of humankind in the world, until his knees bent and his lungs heaved a great sigh as his body lowered itself to greet her. _"But I believe he had a purpose, child, in making me this way. Why, it's the same reason he made you – such a pretty little thing as you are. We never know 'till we find out ourselves, and God always has his secretive ways, his little purposes. But my mama always told me – never judge a book by its cover."_

She believed, the day she met the poor fellow, that the adage was undeniably true. Whatever skins he had been draped in when she had met him, as simple and unsuitable as they were, were a simple backdrop against the colorful soul and matchless heart beneath the miserable human guise.

But she knew of only one misleading concept which fate had devised the day _they_ had met. Not the mysterious man with the knapsack, no...he had been less of a controversy in flesh than _him._

It was the boy who held all the essence of mystery.

She wondered, idly, and in her sudden onslaught of rumination, let her needlework fall to her lap. A glance to her left allowed her the pleasure of seeing a young and beautiful face, exuding the ethereal loveliness of Botticelli's angels in its reformed countenance as it basked in the tranquility of somnolence and spring. She grazed her fingertips across his rosy cheek, and her heart trilled lightly inside of its cage, as a bird which longs for freedom, as the quiet lips below moved not in fear, but in contentment.

Yes, pity. Fate had instilled instantaneous compassion as if it had simply been destined all along.

If she had not pitied him, sympathized with the derelict sight of the boy, then would they ever have met at all?

* * *

"Father, I long for a walk," came a soft, pleading voice across the long dining table. "Might I persuade you to allow me a turn about the lane?"

The man sniffed distractedly, raising his tea cup over the paper his nose seemed buried into intently. "There is hardly room for your falling with malady with such imperative events in our near future, now is there Cecilia? No, I think not. Have your books not entertained you enough, my dear?"

"My books have not grown stale, father…but for such beauty to be had outside the walls of the library, their black and white pages pale in comparison," she countered obstinately, and her fork clattered noisily as it fell from her gloved hand and onto the porcelain plate set before her. "The weather is fair, the lanes are quite pleasantly dry and I can find no logic in your reasoning that may suggest a walk would do much to deter my welfare. In fact, I would say with the utmost of confidence, sir, that it would do well to enhance it."

"Oh, and how is that so?" The paper crumpled beneath his hands as he folded it and settled it neatly pressed by his untouched toast. "Pray, do enlighten me dearest," he afforded her a warm and genuine smile. "You are well aware of your father's partiality for a good line of reason. Persuade me."

Her mouth twitched with a smirk. "If I may be so bold as to remind you of the date?"

"One and twenty, of March as I have been well informed by Benedict."

"The advent of spring, am I mistaken in deducing this?"

"On the contrary," he smiled, his eyes twinkling affably. "You are not mistaken at all, little one."

She rose from her perch on a lovely mahogany chair, its fabric a fine calico print brushed with jade and rosy pink. Her footsteps seemed dwarfed by the sheer size of the room, and the sounds of her slippers upon the burnished floors echoed across the long, deep halls as she walked purposefully toward the gaping windows, which the servants had been happily obliged to open in welcoming of the fine weather. The fragrances of infant spring wafted in, carried on wind and through the boughs of the trees; the flowers, however, still remained wilted at their post beneath the windowsill, looking forlorn as they bowed their heads, waiting for the temperate heat to wake them from their spells of sleep.

Cecilia Redgrave gestured adamantly out the window. "Do you not see the condition of the elements?"

"I am aware of the fine weather, lovely," her father retorted. "I, too, have a secret partiality for stealing clandestine glances out of our little windowpanes. However, I do not so rashly display my affection for them as you do," he paused, allowing a smirk to claim his mouth. It fell suddenly as a thought occurred to him, "What I am not aware of is your point in the matter? Surely you have not forgotten the inconsistency of early spring as well?"

She inclined her head for a moment, calculating her next argument as she considered her father's rebuttal. Early spring had a tendency to brandish its ability to produce abrupt storms.

"Then I shall wear a shawl and bonnet." She gave a stiff nod that bore an air of conclusion, and offered Mr. Redgrave a reproachful look, at which he promptly responded with an adoring chuckle.

"You laugh, sir, and I speak only of my honest intentions!" She refuted

He motioned her toward him with a soft wave of his hand, and she obeyed merely out of plaguing curiosity. "Out of good humor, I assure you my daughter! And however should I contend with honesty?" He took her gloved hand as she neared him, and clicked his tongue as he appraised her hopeful countenance. A look of surrender passed over his expression, and he gave a sigh. She grinned, accepting his affirming silence as her triumph over his little game.

"But only, my dear, if you wear your shawl and bonnet," he reminded her, and craned his neck to follow her as she dashed toward the foyer. His voice ricocheted off the russet walls. "Your thickest shawl, Cecilia!"

But Cecilia was much too indulgent in her own solid victory to heed his admonishment, and had ghosted through the door so quickly, in her shawl and bonnet, as was directed, that she almost upset a wicker basket of linen and its carrier on her way out. A rather playful servant, Lettie as she was, called after her, 'perhaps the wind may catch you, Miss Cecilia!' and chuckled at her own joke as she continued on her way up the stairs.

As she had predicted, the air was soft with new warmth and the light of the day played gently along the slow-moving currents of a temperate breeze. It sifted through the tendrils of her hair, like a curious child with his toy, and then moved ever on, losing interest quickly in its own perpetual adventures.

Cecilia watched, a little enviously, as the branches above her, beginning to sprout tufts of green on its barren limbs, trembled with the surges of wind that blazed through it; she would admit, to herself only, that she wished she could be as unhinged as the wind and its matchless freedom. She mused that she would travel the world; indulge her whims for exploration on the enigmatic shores of the Americas and the exotic wonders of the tropical Indies.

It was as she reflected the adolescent whims of her childhood, long since nurtured by her father and his own fondness for small adventures, that she heard an unmistakable cry of pain and the sounds of a stumble from around the bend in the trail, rising before her in its offer for new sights and sounds to behold. But upon hearing such a pitiful noise, undoubtedly human and close by, she halted, sharpening her ears for anymore like it, and upon listening in, found that she heard another voice approach, sounding terribly violent and quite…young.

"Been idle again, have ye little slog?!" Called the voice, and a smaller one, submissive to its oppressor, cried out in hurting. The thud of a harsh blow wielded upon vulnerable flesh and bone resonated off the bark of the trees.

Cecilia, alarmed, began trudging purposefully up the dusty trail, nearly losing her shawl in the process.

The smaller voice gave a pathetic plea. "Please…merely fetching tinder, sir! Please!"

"Hardly, ye ol' useless drudge!" Came the venomous reply, and as Cecilia rounded the corner, she came upon a disquieting scene. "Dreamin again, have ye? Ye know that does no good! Earns a good floggin, it does!"

There was a boy there, perhaps half her age or a little more, standing erect with a walking stick in hand. Below him, a bent and wretched creature, its head cradled in its pale hands and its knees bowed in on itself. The oppressor, with his stick, had taken to beating the poor being at his feet with the bludgeon; she could hear the bones as they began to give way beneath the ruthless beatings.

"Yer worthless! More useful dead, I say! _Dead_!"

"Please, sir!" Beseeched the boy, still curling in on himself like a wilting flower. "Please!"

"Stop!"

The beatings allayed as her voice arose from anonymity, and the young boy with the stick looked up through an oily array of brown hair, which had fallen in his eyes upon his commencement of battering the adolescent at his feet. Upon unfurling from himself, Cecilia saw what looked to be the elder from the traces of structure in the gaunt, dirt-streaked face, writhing slowly and painfully in the dirt.

"Merely submissin', miss," the boy explained, gesturing to the servant lying on the ground, looking utterly devastated as he strained against the aches which throttled him for air. "This here dog…he was laggin' in his work, he was."

She cast him a look of utter contempt, and then turned gently toward the cowering boy. As she drew closer, she detected tremors, like whispers surging through the weakened, pale body. Her shadow was thrown over his trembling form, and upon noticing the alteration in the suspended, green-tinged light, the boy recoiled and gave a low gasp of terror.

"Hush, hush," she murmured softly, and outstretched her hand to the tattered fabric which contained, beneath the filthy, rather flimsy material, a thin shoulder. "My intentions are not to inflict harm on you in any way. Might I inquire after your well being, boy?"

She turned the poor creature over, kindly as she could in regarding the suffering she knew he must have been enduring, he gave a soft, pitiable sigh of pain and his countenance was unveiled. Through the streaks of grime and underneath the oddly shaped assortment of contusions that tarnished the pale skin, she saw the markings of a boy entering manhood…no older than herself, perhaps not even a day to separate their ages.

He did not meet her eyes, and this angered the other, standing quietly nearby with his stick; apparently, he had not attached himself to the idea of being ignored for too long.

"Look at the pretty miss when she's talkin' at ye, ye useless dog!" And a malicious clout was delivered to the servant at her feet, straight to the chest, which sent the poor drudge crying out once more. It subsided to a silent struggle, a wheeze and a cough as he withered, again, into a defensive ball once more.

Cecilia, outraged by the inhumanity of the situation, positioned herself stubbornly between the boy and the servant. She protested vehemently.

"Have you no compassion, little demon, for this poor boy?!" She exclaimed, gesturing to the figure wheezing miserably on the ground. "Have you no heart in that overly indulged little frame of yours?!"

"Ye misunderstand me, miss," the boy replied, giving a self-important sniff as he regarded her. "This here's my father's lowest, most pitiful little cripple of a servant and he's been lollin' off in his duties! My pa, he gave me this here bludgeon, and says that if Smike here don't do what he's told, he'd get a right good wallopin' fer it!"

"I don't care if he is the homeliest creature, or the lowest of drudges!" She objected. "He is but a timid, broken creature, and if he is as you say, then you, little sir, are a mockery of the nature of humanity to treat a poor and unfortunate boy this way!"

The smaller boy snarled and advanced on her, looking as if he would surely put a hurt on her if she dared insult him again. "He's of no bother to ye, miss. Anyway, he's not yers to be lookin' after…he's mine and I can do what I like with him, yer likin' it or not!"

An idea then struck her so surely, as if a bell had begun to toll in her and remind her of the opportunity at hand for a good bargain. She paused, casting a hopeful glance at the servant, who lay fearful behind her, and he returned her glance with one of inquisition and distrust.

She transferred her attentions from the servant to his owner. "Since the nature of your ownership is, unhappily, true…I must nullify this truth," she gathered herself proudly. "I will extend the offer of one hundred pounds for this boy here!"

The boy snorted. "Fer useless, ugly, pitiful Smike? He's not worth twenty, pretty miss, and ye'd be better off spending yer riches on a pretty dress than this here cripple. He can barely trudge up the stairs without puttin' a hurt on himself!" And the snort, as detestable as it was in the first place, developed into a demeaning cackle. Smike, however, was accustomed to such insults and did not look even half slighted by the blatant affront.

"Then should you not be eager to part with him, if he is, as you claim, 'useless'? Especially for the offer I have extended to you?"

The boy's raucous, cruel laughter subsided as the authenticity of the proposition began to settle and nestle into his small, slow-witted brain. Another snort of disbelief escaped him, "Ah, miss…ye must have had a right fall on yer way up here, if ye be wantin' Smike. He belongs to us Squeers 'cause there's no one else who be wantin' 'im."

"And why should I not want a servant of my own? Especially one so acquiescent and persuaded as this one here? I should think I am perfectly sound in my decision to transfer him into my ownership."

Young Squeers considered this a moment, and then dropped the walking stick. "Well, if ye be wantin' him…ye'll be payin' fer him now, I'd expect!"

"I am a woman of my word and would hardly resort to deception!"

"Lead the way then…" Little Squeers offered, and, as Cecilia ventured forward to help the drudge, whose name she'd derived from the unorthodox meeting as Smike, threatened her with the stick in identifying her endeavoring to help him. "Who's the servant here, you or 'im?!"

"You, sir, will not advance on me with that detestable stick or I shall not restrain myself to the limits of feminine decorum in defending myself and my honor!"

And so the boy was left to rise on his own which, as Cecilia observed, seemed a grueling process for him, especially under the effects of such pain. But it was the act of ascension that first made Cecilia's render her heart to the pitiable Smike.

With a low grunt of pain, he gingerly unraveled himself from the fleshy shield he had provided for his small, rather useless body upon receiving the last blow from his vicious proprietor. From his knees, he staggered uncertainly onto one foot and then, as he gained sufficient balance on one leg dragged the other forward, lifting it and, at last, he stumbled forward. His stance afforded no room for inquisition on behalf of his social stature; in all ways, he was a lowly drudge, from the posture to the subservient bow of his head.

Cecilia glanced longingly at the stick in the young proprietor's hand, wishing she could snatch it from him and deal to him what the poor servant boy Smike suffered for what she could only fathom had been years.

Though the path which led her away from her home had been rather short, time seemed to pass nonchalantly on the return journey, as Cecilia found herself amongst cruel and unwanted company. The squat little figure that plodded on beside her seemed such an unfair concept, compared to the slouched creature that staggered on her left, reduced to the expectant cower which she found to be a sort of second nature to the boy's normal habit. His walk, she noticed, seemed to exhaust him completely, as each weight of every step settled over his shoulders as heavily as would the weight of a carriage or an immeasurable boulder.

She pitied him, the poor thing, as every step seemed torture and he was used as a mere slave to the unbending will of his superiors. The work, she wondered and awestruck by the idea, must have been a torment all its own.

The air was cooling as they continued their stroll along the edge of the forest, and Cecilia began to notice the return of the tremors that had throttled his figure before. She put her hand over the shawl which formed like a soft cocoon around her shoulders and stopped before the boy, whose head lowered uneasily with the suddenness of her unforeseen halt.

She offered him an assuaging look, but he did not catch it. His head remained locked in its deferential position.

A shrill voice erupted from behind her before she could unravel the shawl from her shoulders, and she had half a mind to beat the stout young Squeers with a stick for his impatience and cruelty; perhaps, she mused, he'd learn a bit of manners for himself.

"Miss, what do ye think yer doin', eh?"

She rounded on him, with a look that suggested wanton murder in light of his mere presence. "I am conducting a miniature lesson in manners for this slave boy here, and if you would be so kind as to go on, I would be much obliged to lend you the name of my father so that you may be delivered from my presence this instant!"

The boy seemed unfazed by her indignant exclamation. "And who might this father of yers be?"

She ignored him, and gestured toward the manor that had appeared at the bottom of the hill they had begun to descend upon her sudden pause. "There you will bed awarded your funds, though I dare say you hardly deserve them! A servant will be beckoned to the door. Request the audience of a Mr. Alfred Redgrave, and you will be serviced," she shuffled toward him, her expression darkening almost completely as she confronted the malicious beast of a boy. "And if I should find you there upon my return, do not consider that I should be so civil with you as I have been for the duration of our meeting."

Again unfazed, he dipped forward in a courteous bow, a rather crude charade of the proper farewell gesture. "A pleasure meetin' ye, Miss Redgrave."

And he was off, plodding resolutely down the hill. She sighed bitterly, and said, "I could not offer you the same endearment, little beast."

Cecilia returned, immediately, to Smike as her dreadful company at last took his final leave. The boy had not moved an inch since the commencement of the miniature altercation, consisting of only quick-tempered words and indifference on behalf of young Squeers; but as he was mostly the scapegoat for such quarrels where he had come from, his logical mind had admonished him to stray far away from where there was the distribution of harsh phrase.

"You poor, poor thing," Cecilia breathed, and disentangled her wrap from her shoulders. A gust of cold wind caught her uncovered arms, and she realized how chilled he must have been, and was instantly concerned of such exposure to the weather in his less than favorable health. Quickly, she swathed him in the thick material, and he watched, in silent wonderment, as he took in the unanticipated kindness of his new mistress.

"You must be positively exhausted," Cecilia arranged the shawl so that it draped over most of the boy, and then gently took his arm. "Come here, and we'll permit you a rest. There's no need for hastening our return. I'm expected to be on a long, leisured walk."

At last, he attempted words as she helped him settle comfortably into the grass beneath his feet. "Do I…that is…I mean…do I not have…work to be done?"

"Merely a pretense. The most grueling task I will ask of you is to sit with me in my garden, and lend me your ears as I read and you, perhaps, prune the roses," she assured him, and gave a little laugh as she pictured herself parading about her rose bushes, the image complete with her father's white wig and a faux moustache to match as she read aloud a book relating to Parliament.

"So am I…_not_ your new slave?"

She gave a disapproving shake of her head, closing her eyes and enjoying the sun as it spilled over her skin and fanned her pale cheeks. "Absolutely not! I detest the concept of owning the livelihood of another human being. We employ housemaids, but they are given wages. None of their lives belong wholly to us; they may leave when they please."

Smike lapsed into a bout of silence, which was not uncommon for him, as he hardly found anything useful to say that would not find him in a situation that would render him a misfortunate outcome. He merely reposed in the grass, hugging to his gaunt figure the shawl that Cecilia had draped over his shoulders.

"I suppose I must request your name, to obtain a suitable acquaintance between us." She ventured, startling Smike out of wistful contemplation. He bowed his head as she turned to look on him, and she laughed pleasantly, reaching forward with a hesitant hand to lift his chin. Shocked into utter silence by a pair of gentle eyes, Smike felt the overwhelming urge to revert to old habits and bow his head once more. It seemed much safer that way.

"Am I to deduce that it is, in fact, Smike?"

"Yes, miss." He replied obediently.

The wind seemed to carry an eerie resounding within its blustering flow, and their ears, however idle they had been in the simple quiet that had roosted on their little patch of serenity, were roused into attentive interest as they heard a voice from far off.

_Miss Cecilia! Miss Cecilia, where are you?!_

"Oh posh," Cecilia spat as she leapt from her seat and dusted the loose grass from the back of her lavender dress. "I suppose we must return home, if they insist upon shouting to the winds. An explanation is the least I can offer my father for his unquestioning kindness."

She offered her arm as Smike struggled to stand in the same hasty fashion, but failed miserably and nearly fell straight over in his weakness. Remarkably, he was caught by his new mistress who, under his weight, nearly toppled over herself.

"Are you quite alright? Here, allow me to aid you…" She steadied him and, once he had regained his footing, offered him a walking stick that had been abandoned on lonely turf, from the obliging wood nearby.

"Oh…please…Miss….I am sorry…I did not mean…" His chest heaved as his words faltered, and at once was ashamed…of himself and the sudden onslaught of frailty. After so many years of enduring the hunger, the fatigue, the beatings, he would have expected an acquired tolerance and learned to disregard the qualities of his humanity.

But, much to his dismay, upon the first stroke of luck he'd had in years, he'd managed to spoil the first moment of tranquility he'd experienced in such a long, long time.

"You have done nothing erroneous or wicked in any way that would merit such beseeching," she remarked, and began walking as she straightened her dress. Upon measuring the strain that had begun to mark his countenance, she offered him a smile, and a good amount of it was quelled by the kind intimation of forgiveness that he endeavored to find in her.

"If my curiosity does not offend you," she began, slowing her pace as she recalled his difficulty in walking. "How…did they hurt you? To render you unable…?"

Smike seemed hardly disconcerted by her inquiry, only stuttering in the same nervous fashion that he had first presented to her as mere habit. "I think I was…born this way."

"Then, I believe you have earned an apology from me, for my carelessness," she said awkwardly, and felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Will you…forgive me?"

"It's alright…it's in man's nature…isn't it Miss? To…question something that….doesn't seem quite right? Or…or…quite human?"

She watched the boy from the corner of her eye, and the look in them softened the color to a gentle, swaying blue. "Quite the contrary, Smike. You are the epitome of human."

* * *

Upon their return to Thoreau, Smike was immediately transferred to the care of the most prominent housemaid, who led him directly into the spacious sitting room for tea and cakes. Upon being received by her, the boisterous woman who seemed more like a hen clucking around him, he was ushered into the grandeur of the sitting room. He cast Cecilia a rather worrisome glance, questioning, and she returned his anxiety with a gentle smile, allowing him the comfort of knowing that she would not desert him.

"Cecilia, dearest," her father flourished his hand, letting the dramatic gesture motion toward the door to the library, which was left slightly ajar. Cecilia allowed one last glance in Smike's direction, who was being kindly escorted by the taller woman, superior to him in height and girth, into the sitting room.

"_Cecilia_!" Her father hissed, and she quickly entered the library, turning on him as he shut the door noisily behind him, permitting his annoyance to be known to her.

Upon closing the door, he lingered for a moment, as if enveloped in thought, and his hand slipped languidly off the burnished gold handle. "After all these long years of my persistence in persuading you to acquire a personal servant….now, of all times, is marked by a change of heart?"

"I assure you, father, that heart was most certainly present in this decision, but not for the boy to be delivered directly back into servitude," she replied.

He heaved a sigh of what seemed to be born of nostalgia, but as she risked a glance in his direction, saw him press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly weary. "Then I have simply bought myself a crippled pet, Cecilia? Is that what I am to derive from your understanding with this boy?"

"No, I had meant to have him as a keeper…a caretaker to tend my roses. And I, in turn, will endeavor to return his health to him. It is a mutual respect, father; he has been treated wrongly and I…I could not stand by and watch the poor creature suffer such needless cruelty!"

He settled into the seat behind a long cherry wood desk, upon which lay stacks of papers that were neatly pressed into piles and a book lay open before him. A pair of bifocals, abandoned, she presumed, after the summoning of a servant to receive the fiendish little Squeers.

"Need I remind you of your obligation? The roses will hardly play a part in the weeks to come, and I daresay, they will be abandoned to wither after you are to leave."

She attempted a half-hearted grin, which faltered as soon as it came and disappeared completely within a moment of silent rumination. Upon recalling the silence, and the expectation that remained in the air, she cleared her throat and replied. "Until then, I would prefer to see to it that my flowers are cared for, and I should very much like fair company as well."

There was a pause as Mr. Redgrave sighed, once more, and ambled toward his fine crystal glasses of scotch. As he poured a one for himself, Cecilia regarded his hunched figure, bent by years of burdensome sorrow and regret. "Please, will you promise me father…you will keep him, once I have gone."

"You will not take him with you, Cecilia? Is he not yours now? My, my this is all very perplexing, this affair...is it not?"

"I fear that I will not retain the…ability to keep him."

"I suppose, if he proves himself useful in the garden, that I may…reserve a place in the quarters for him."

"And you…will take good care of him, won't you?"

"Why, Cecilia…do you mean to insult me?" He chuckled heartily, attempting wit and charm in a moment that seemed pertinently solemn, but the purpose of it was lost in a crushing wave of melancholy. "I…I will not abandon him to his tormentors, if that is your insinuation. I am no fiend."

He turned to look at her and, seeing the pensive sadness in her downcast eyes, reached forward and enveloped her with his arms. "Go on then…he is in desperate need of tending himself."

"Yes, father," she replied and, upon being released from the embrace, offered him one last mollifying look and turned to depart from the library altogether.

The sitting room was alive with bustle, quite a contrast to the distant, ruminating silence that had consumed Cecilia in the library. The company of such mournful books, their pages drowsy in the dim lights and the dark atmosphere, only made the despondency seem more alive – at least, against the listless quiet of the room.

But as she came upon the scene, she found that Lettie was fussing over the wearied, bent figure of Smike. He looked rather vigilant, uncertain in regards to responding to her frenzied conduct, pouring tea and chattering and laughing heartily over her own silly wit. And so he merely engaged in a cautious smile, looking nonetheless entertained by her boisterous display.

It seemed impossible for sadness to cast its disquieting spell over such a blithe scene. But it was the way the streams of light seemed to seep through the glittering windowpanes, pouring over Smike and holding his ashen countenance in a sort of bewitching glow. He had been presented with fresh linen, plain but otherwise fresh.

_He almost looks....beautiful._

He caught sight of her, and his eyes seemed to soften at once. But realization swayed his better judgment, and the gentle gaze transfixed themselves nervously on the intricately woven rug beneath his feet.

"Miss Cecilia! At last you've come! Smike here as been wonderin' where you tottered off to." Lettie's exclamation severed through the raucous laughter, and seemed to dismiss herself upon realizing Cecilia's arrival, leaving her a cup of tea in her wake. "I'll just be off to throw these here linens in the rubbish for the boy, and ol' Benedict, he's polished one of the rooms upstairs for out little guest here."

:ettie gestured to the wicker basket full of Smike's threadbare clothes. "Poor creature…looks like he's seen the worst of it. A sweet boy, too…such misfortunes should not have been for him."

"Thank you, Lettie. I hope that he will come to find himself quite welcome here. Do you presume he may find…certain discrepancies, in integrating his existence into one household already long since established?"

"Only time can tell ya, miss," Lettie lifted her great shoulders, completing the helpless gesture with a long, wispy sigh. "I must be gettin' on with my duties."

"Certainly," Cecilia remarked and, as Lettie bustled off toward the kitchen with her linen basket, joined the frail-looking boy in the sitting room. She perched herself on the sofa across from him, in order to allow him some self-comfort without her presence to ruffle its innate weakness. She assumed that she would have found it nearly impossible to conduct herself in a way that would suggest prudence and self-containment if she found herself in a similar situation, and could not help perceiving that, though he permitted himself an anxious look at his surroundings every so often, he carried himself in a manner of courage and keen perception.

With her own tea beginning to warm her, and the delicate porcelain sitting prettily in her lap, she abandoned her attentions solely on it and took to observing her companion instead. Upon noticing that her eyes had become transfixed, curiously, on him, he began to fidget, staring at the porcelain as if it may break if he dared lay one dirty finger on it. She then recalled, after such a line of thinking, that his mistreatment had not afforded him a bath in too long a time, and she reproached herself for not remembering at once, before he had been changed.

"Please, drink," she offered gently. "It will warm you."

Beneath the perpetually tautening surface, there was strained movement. His eyes wandered from their settlement on the exquisite rug, and rested bravely on her face. "Please, miss…I only hope you…will not think that I wish to reject your kindness toward me," he murmured, nervously, and his eyes, upon detecting the kind smile that had begun to manifest itself in her features, reverted back to the rug. Safety and security seemed attainable in those deep burgundy threads. "Only…I do not wish to embarrass you with my not knowing how…"

"How to conduct yourself?" She asked mildly and, upon receiving a shameful nod from him, set her cup upon the saucer, placed, for their convenience, on the coffee table before her. She was gentle in asking, "would you care for me to…present proper conduct to you? I confess I am hardly a proficient educator, and am clumsy with the presentation of offering my educative services, but for you I may risk an endeavor."

He smiled, and a brief smile was given when she said, playfully, "now, sir, I must warn you that I am, however, proficient with injurious censure if you dare laugh!"

Her muslin gown rustled delicately as she transferred her perch from the opposite sofa to the very one he sat so nervously on, and for a moment, as she picked up his saucer from the table, it seemed the only noise available in the presence of his unrequited awkwardness.

"Here," she muttered to him, taking his pale hands, weakened by fatigue and work, and offering the saucer to him. "It is quite simple with much practice, but I am afraid that I upset many a cup upon first entering the ah - _fragile_ art."

A small, cordial smile traced his mouth upon detecting her mischievous good humor, and as she lifted the cup to her lips, the saucer kept as a sort of safety net beneath, he mimicked her movements. A cordial warmth spread through him, swift and comforting, and she seemed mildly, if not wholly, pleased with his efficiency, when he had successfully transferred the cup and saucer back its safe-keeping upon the coffee table.

"There!" She cried, offering him a small ovation. "You are a master of the art of tea-consumption, my friend! And if I were left to consider the matter, I should be much obliged to feel envious, as you are a boy and are a great deal more poised than I!"

And as soon as Smike had been given a leisurely amount of time to finish his tea, and indulge in a sort of genial comfort that had not been allowed at Dotheboys Hall, she set her china cup down and gestured to the boy to follow her, resisting the primal urge to go to him immediately upon watching him struggle to rise. The poor creature seemed so tired to her, and though she was not ignorant of the fact that he had been more than proficient in carrying himself from place to place, with a great deal more fluidity than she would have thought in his disability, the impulse was still there.

Luckily for her, she was able to divert her mind elsewhere and distract herself from the impulse. She did not want to risk harming his pride in coddling him as she would a child, and, surely, injure her own reputation in doing so.

Instead, she chattered happily to him about nothing in particular as they walked slowly toward the stairs, an activity which Cecilia Redgrave hardly thought she would ever feel obliged to do. But it seemed to comfort him, listening to her speak, and she could not think of a reason that she should not console him, after all he had been through. In fact, it seemed the least she could do.

"As Lettie was so careless, but kind, as to provide you with new dress before I was given the opportunity to offer you a bath, I suppose that, after I draw you some hot water, and whilst you are bathing, I should find you fresh attire."

In the midst of his struggle up the staircase, he nearly stumbled and, upon her catching his arm, preventing his fall, seemed only to stutter more as he asked. "_Bath_, miss?"

"Yes, of course…I might add, dutifully, that there is hardly a more comforting thing than a bath. Of course, there is walking along the forest that seems equally amusing as it is lovely, but when the rains forbid such activity outside, there is always reading, and bathing, I suppose..."

If he were at all introduced to the regulations of society manners and the decorum in which Cecilia Redgrave was expected to act, he would have realized straight away that she was digressing in the most mortifying of ways. Certainly the age in which a girl of her stature found herself, she would have been introduced to high expectations on behalf of her peers, and after so much practice in conversing with virtual strangers many years her senior, she felt herself flush at the thought of such impropriety in the presence of someone her own age.

He was not aware, however, and her blush cooled immediately, especially as she found the door to the wash room ajar. "Ah, there we are! It seems as if Benedict has already drawn hot water for you. I suppose I shall allow you privacy, and, once you are finished, you can find me in the parlor. But, mind you, the one to which I am referring is near the library, not the foyer."

Before she could leave, however, Smike caught a small portion of the thin sleeve of her lavender muslin gown. She turned, and saw the faintest of smiles on his face, one, she presumed, was involuntary and was simply an effect of the emotion in him.

And in the softest of voices, he said to her, "I thank you miss…with all of my heart."

She wanted to reply but, upon receiving no words that seemed appropriate for such a kind expression of gratitude, she merely offered him a genuine smile and, as his hand lifted from her sleeve, resumed her descent toward the drawing room.

* * *

Upon finishing his bath, and clearing away the water before the task could be prevailed upon by a dutiful servant, Smike skittishly peeked outside the door and, finding clothes left on an obliging settee nearby, snatched them before he anticipated the playing of a cruel joke on him. Despite knowing that he was no longer in the home of the despicable Squeers, he could not help but bear the preventative sense to allow him not a moment's hesitation, should he find himself in deceptive company.

However silly it seemed to him, still he bore it with patience, knowing there was the slightest of chances that it was not silly, and he might need it.

He dressed in the garments that Cecilia had left for him, watching, in the mirror propped up on the wall before him, as the reflected image became ever so clearer to him in presenting someone he had never thought possible to see in a mirror – a boy. Not a drudge, nor a dog, nor a lowly slave. But a boy, worthy of wearing such clean clothes and unsoiled skin.

Already, he felt revived from his wistful stupor, and if he had not been by the warm, consoling tea that he had been offered before, then certainly by the idea of being clean for the first time in what felt like ages.

He reviewed his mirrored replica with some disdain, of course, seeing the unsightly ankles and the pallor that reached even into his eyes, rendering them what he saw as an insipid sort of color without the expressiveness of character to redeem them.

Unbeknownst to him, there was kindness there, and a bud of love and loyalty yet to have bloomed, but because it was not the wickedness of some dashing men that he had rarely seen, or the dark enigma which some possessed, it was merely the light of the sun reflecting off the surface. There was more than enough character to be unveiled in him, and stronger than those who were more witty and educated and sophisticated than he was.

His eyes, he mused drearily, were merely…dull. He could only hope that a new household, with such a variety of qualities to be investigated, that he would find himself amongst the masses. And perhaps, he hoped Cecilia would inadvertently, through her own manner of decorum, teach him to discover his identity within the hollow shell of flesh and bone.

_Miss Cecilia, _he remembered, was expecting him in the drawing room. He fitted his poor feet into the slippers he'd worn on his arrival and began the exerting activity of descending the staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs, he began to amble upon realizing the enormity of the manor, at least compared to his former sleeping space, which had been at least half the size of the parlor. A hallway seemed promising in producing the aforementioned parlor for him and he ventured into the shaded corridor with some hesitancy, but in his determination, shuffled quietly along.

He began to hear the sound of voices filtering through the wall some way ahead. Drawing closer, the voices became unmistakable to Smike, who, after such long years under the confinement of the Squeers, had learned to sharpen his hearing to prepare for their arrival.

_Mr. Redgrave, I am pleased indeed upon hearing of your daughter's introduction into good society. It is a momentous occasion! But I have yet to be informed of its relevance to me? My mother received me yesterday, and was so obstinately vague on the subject of an arrangement concerning Cecilia, which vexed me, I assure you, after she invested all that trouble in mentioning it to me, that I came as soon as I could in hopes of hearing it from the man himself. _

_I am afraid that I am not at liberty to discuss the situation as of yet, Mr. Pickett. But I may assure you, with much sincerity, that the matter will be settled presently._

_Yes, it is all very well but…might I inquire after some inclination pertaining to the situation? _

_You may not, Nathaniel…I fear I must return to my work. It does not complete itself you know! _At this, there was a rather half-hearted attempt at a chuckle. _Benedict, would you be so kind as to show the boy to the door? Good man._

Smike had slowed to an absentminded meander, his slippers making wispy sounds as they shuffled across the burnished floor. At once, a door not five feet away opened, and a head of fiery scarlet hair exited the room, belonging to a younger man who looked to be much older than Smike himself. The gentleman was escorted down the hall by a gaunt and weary servant, who trailed dutifully behind him.

The man caught sight of Smike and offered a genteel smile. "Well, good afternoon! I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting _you_ before!"

"New one, arrived here only a few hours before," Benedict's deep voice, resembling the fathomless rumble of thunder, seemed to surprise Smike out of the reverie he'd been ensnared within. "Apparently, Miss Cecilia rescued him from a rather beastly little piglet down the way, a loutish sort of boy. At least, I've heard…"

"Might I be so bold as to inquire after your name, boy?" The man offered his hand, and Smike, uncertain as to how to respond to such surprising civility, looked to Benedict for assistance. The servant gestured to his hand, and then to his mouth, as if urging him to speak.

"Smike, sir," he replied meekly, and allowed his hand to be wrung twice.

"Well, I declare good fellow that it has been a delight indeed in making your acquaintance!" He said giddily. "My name is Nathaniel Pickett, an old companion of Cecilia's. Since we were children, really. Or, rather…she was a child."

He laughed cordially and, after pausing to heed an overhead rumble of thunder, looked back at Smike with a rather concerned expression. "Well, it seems as if the weather insists upon my departure. I can only pray the rain will hold until I reach the house! Be well, Smike. I do believe you will be very much attached to this dear old place in no time at all!"

Mr. Pickett was off before Smike even had the chance to conjure an appropriate response. Despite his odd manners, he was very kind to Smike and he had not been opposed to meeting the man at all. Benedict, before following, turned to the boy and motioned toward the library.

"I believe you are looking for that room there, if I am not mistaken…and I am hardly prone to mistakes, boy. It's not in my nature…" He said simply, and continued on after Mr. Pickett.

Smike offered the man a most concerned and curious glance, but continued down the corridor as Benedict followed the guest to the foyer. Again, his shuffling feet were the only sound which filled the vicinity, offering a ghostly aura to an already shadowed, eerie corridor. There were many doors surrounding him, many potential rooms that, without the servant's reference, he might have been visiting for a long time in search of Cecilia. He was glad of the man's unwarranted kindness until he arrived in the room, only to find himself trespassing on restricted territory.

Alfred Redgrave looked quite perplexed as to the appearance of the new servant boy. In fact, as he heard the shuffle abruptly halt at his doorway, and a slight intake of breath that may have been identified as a small gasp of horror, he turned to greet the modest creature and snapped his book shut with one swift clench of his hand.

"I believe Benedict misdirected you. Strictly chance, I can be assured," Mr. Redgrave seemed to entertain a private joke as he set the book down on the corner of his cherry wood desk.

Smike, horrified by his mistake, began to mutter. "Please, sir…please, I…I did not…that is to say…if I had known!"

"I daresay, boy, did they teach you to speak where they confined you?" He offered a laugh of nonchalance and invited Smike in with a wave of his hand. "No matter. It is plain that I have frightened you into submission. You needn't worry yourself into such oblivion; I would never think to hurt anyone, much less you."

"I thank you, sir…" Smike said quietly and paused before the desk, where he happened upon another book, a volume much thicker in sheer size than its predecessor in his master's hand.

"I will risk a wild supposition and say you are in pursuit of Cecilia. Poor boy, you should be shackled to your search for the duration of your life, if you insist upon looking. I have not yet found her…and I, her father, who have raised her and clothed her and enriched her mind!"

Alfred Redgrave was one to speak metaphorically, and all in honor of a good jest. But upon finding that there was too much truth to the statement than could be considered comfortable, he silenced the common chuckle that came after the delivery of a witticism, and replaced the book in his hand to its slot.

He turned, after hearing no response to his clever remark, to find the boy tracing the cover of a volume placed on his desk. Recognition immediately followed and he said, "I see you have acquainted yourself with _The Pilgrim's Progress_?"

In his shock, Smike emitted a low gasp which could only be described as pitiful, and upset the volume, so that it landed on the floor with a substantial _thud_.

"You are a creature easily undone, aren't you?" Mr. Redgrave remarked cynically, a contemptuous comment directed toward the cause of the boy's distrustful skittishness rather than its pitiful effect.

"Sir, please…forgive…" Smike swallowed hard against a growing lump in his throat, and the last word was uttered so low that Mr. Redgrave had to crane his neck forward to hear it. "_Me."_

"I do not comprehend the need to forgive those who are not at fault. It is your former masters who are vastly in need of forgiving, and it is they who do not deserve it." He bent to the ground and picked up the fallen volume. One look at the boy was enough to feel the severity of the neglect he had endured, he could only presume, all of his life. In his sympathy, he could only manage a sigh, and settled the book back on the corner of the desk.

"Cecilia…" He began, gesturing lightly toward the door. "She is in the parlor down the hall. I believe you shall find it on your left, not three doors away."

Smike was about to leave when a voice beckoned him back into the dim light of the library. Mr. Redgrave looked softly on him as the boy, still cowering, glanced tentatively over at the master of the house through his rather demeaned slouch.

"If you…perform well in your duties, which I must confess will be limited to keeping my daughter entertained and her roses lively," he said, and gestured to a book nearby_. _"I shall educate you in the art of reading. Would you be fond of such an idea?"

Smike heaved a long, wispy breath that could be easily afforded to joy. A smile was summoned from its hidden realm, and he answered with such jubilance that it could hardly be contained in the small voice in which it was conveyed. "I…_aye_, sir. I would."

And he hobbled out of the library, leaving a rather amused Alfred Redgrave, who began sorting through his unlimited supply of books with a good-hearted chuckle, in his wake.


	2. Chapter II: Redemption

Smike could pride himself upon the fact that he was cautious. His ability to calculate signs of anger or bloodlust in the eyes of the Squeers had been honed to, what he would say, near perfection. And like all things which were ridden with fault, Smike's perception could be unreliable as well; there were always the times he found himself caught off guard. Indulging a vague memory, lost in some reverie of escape or rescue – and they'd have him.

A clobber to the back of the knees with a splintered broom, or perhaps, the worst of all pain, a right good caning. That hurt him like no other pain had before, and it was not only the physical agony that rippled through his body, like ribbons of movement on water's placid surface. It was almost as if it summoned old aches as well, the appearance of the pain and, instead of just mere carnal anguish, there it was in his mind too.

The Squeers had discovered this, upon closely examining his state for the days following a 'caning'. They uncovered a secret not even Smike himself knew and delighted in their observation, continuing to enforce this sort of punishment whenever the boy had done something particularly naughty. But to them, naughty could be the misplaced blame of losing the school spoon (when it was almost always Mrs. Squeers and her faulty memory, or devilish little Wackford looking to put a hurt on the crippled drudge) or failing to bring enough firewood.

Most of which Smike did, even if modestly or kindly, was deemed an act of defiance and was sorely abhorred by the mistress of Dotheboys Hall.

But the first day spent with his new mistress seemed the most distressing torment of all.

He at least, upon arrival, expected indifference. What was expected was indifference or, more fitting to his usual dealings with people, intolerance on behalf of the masters of the house and its multitude of servants.

It was not how he was received, and sewn into the design this discovery were seeds of suspicion.

Upon realizing that it was quite the opposite of apathy with which he was regarded, he began to suspect conspiracy beneath the masks of smiling faces and decorated speeches of welcome and distinctive affability. However, Smike found himself quite perplexed by the ease and, dare he believe it, _comfort _he had derived from his new home. Everything, even the manor in which he found himself at liberty to roam upon waking from a disturbing dream, was completely bathed in light, a sort of ethereal glow that, in the first moments of his wandering, made him feel as if he were immersed in Heaven.

It seemed much too good for authenticity to Smike. The kindness, especially that of the cook's as he had found himself unconsciously ambling into the kitchen on account of an empty stomach, was too much alike to a dream.

But even hunger in reverie needed to be sated, he considered this as he bowed to the cook and offered profuse thanks, and he permitted his body at least one comfort in somnolence. Soon, he gloomily reminded himself, it would be brimstone and treacle for him.

As the world woke, drawing back the curtain of dark and giving way for the slow, unfurling rousing of the sun, Smike began to doubt the existence of the dream. It seemed far too authentic, in the glittering of the windowpanes as the radiance of the unfolding day touched the sheaths of thin glass. Even the light seemed far too real to be dreamed of, the reality of warmth spreading from his toes to the ends of his hair and the light lazily rolling like wisps of spun gold over his pale skin.

And he was especially certain as to his place in the waking world as Cecilia came bounding down the stairs herself, looking lovely in a scarlet afternoon gown.

"Rising with the roosters, I see? I dare say it, you should not pay mind to him and his useless squabbling…he suffers from an arrogance that I cannot place. Who is he to rouse me from pleasant dreams?" She smiled and continued to descend the staircase, and Smike could not help but entertain a similar grin upon receiving her gentle humor.

Reaching the bottom, she gave a small, defiant hop and leveled with the boy, and Smike could not help but notice she was not taller than his own measly height. "Are you at all hungry? I expect there will be some breakfast in about an hour, but if you should like to accompany me, I usually prefer to sit in the garden or read in the library before it is ready."

She watched as the boy bowed his head and began to nervously rub his wrists. "I will follow where you go, miss." He replied, and she nearly had to crane her neck to hear him.

Upon receiving his assent, she fetched, for herself and for him, a shawl and coat, and tied a bonnet about her to keep the sun off her face. Seeing that he was still considerably weakened from the beating he had taken the day before, she offered him the cane that had been settled near the door, and they soon found themselves in the garden, contently sitting side by side on a white birchwood bench as they looked on the rose bushes, not a few moments later.

A book was in her lap and, after an awkward silence ensued on behalf of Smike's wretched bashfulness and her own bout of insecurity, she began to brush her fingers over the ragged cover. He noticed the repetition of her movements, and, out of the corner of his eye, looked at the ragged leather binding. No print was on its cover.

"This was the first book my father read to me, when I was but a little girl," she said, and her voice was softened with nostalgia. "_Gulliver's Travels_. He claims it as my mother's most prized posession in regards to literature. It was her partiality, even amongst the countless volumes my father had procured for her delight."

It was not long before the realization reached him that she wished to converse with him, and, though quite undone by the very thought of her proximity, he attempted his best to entertain her wish."And…your mother, miss?"

"She was taken from us, when I was but an infant," she halted in her words and removed the pale hand from the leather cover. Smike risked a glance at her, and saw that she was inspecting a small bud nearby that had grown tall, leaning slightly over the bench, bending its head to drink in the unforeseen warmth that had arrived not so long ago. "Why, if it isn't the bravest little flower…"

"I am…sorry," he ventured, stumbling as she looked lovingly on the small bud. "About...about your mother, that is."

"Oh, I do not expect, nor can I accept, your apologies for my own family affairs," she said to him gently, but the sorrow tinged her voice. "I cannot say that I recall her…can you recall your family?"

His face, once brightened by the sun which flooded the small garden, looked suddenly crestfallen at the mentioning of the word. Cecilia became flustered at the thought of exhuming cruel or unfortunate memories on account of her artless curiosity, and even had the intention of begging forgiveness when he returned from his pensive wanderings, looking rather wistful and unhappy, but nonetheless determined.

"I have waited for my family…all my life," he confessed softly, sadly. "But I've come to accept that they may never come for me."

He was quiet again, slipping into the anonymity he had always knew and had come to associate with his elusive bouts of solace. Cecilia, though taught by her father to exercise the necessities of propriety and manners, found herself inwardly debating the need for conduct. Especially as she saw that Smike, who, though placidly planting the frail little seeds with such careful hands, was immersed in his own quiet doldrums of escaped thought.

Out of contrition, she rose from her perch on the garden bench and, with all thoughts of the effect it would have on her gown aside, settled down beside him, watching his trembling hands fumble with the dirt with her approach. "Smike," she began. "If I may impose on you my thoughts. Though there is a certainty in the world which provides us with little hope of discovering the true essence of faith, there are still prospects of your family reclaiming you. There is hope to be had, and when you have it…little else but death may take it from you."

His pale hands began to slow in their insistent efforts to cover the little seeds, and he looked up at her, the light of the sun pouring over his countenance and igniting his features to seem alight with fervent inquisition. "Do you believe so, miss?"

"Exceedingly," she replied. "And if I may…my father is connected well with this countryside. Perhaps he may extend inquiries after your family."

He smiled then. And it was such a smile that Cecilia found herself entertaining the same mirth. It was a delight in seeing him so uplifted in spirits since she'd been acquainted with him, and in honor of his strengthened comfort, she afforded an encouraging grin to congratulate him in return.

* * *

Alfred Redgrave was a man of many talents and interests. Prose and poetry, philosophy and medicine - all that he read disclosed to him some measure of knowledge or intrigue that could withstand the languor of wizened night and steep him deeply in thought until morning.

But it was one of his most frequent diversions to sit in the parlor in the golden afternoon, his cleverly disguised volume in hand, and he would watch the world amble on before him. Keen observation, he always said, was something he prided himself upon for having a perceptive eye and a curious mind to match.

He had been the first to suspect a rather fascinating affair between his spirited stable boy and the meek, but beautiful housemaid Anna not two years before. How the boy had time to work, with his mind so enraptured by the presence of the girl, Mr. Redgrave could never know. He could hardly think it possible for the chores to be done with such wistfulness to entertain. And yet, he heard little of the boy, with the exception of his praises on behalf of his superiors, and so Mr. Redgrave continued to watch quite an engaging courtship flourish on his grounds, before his very eyes.

It had lasted little over six month as the girl was sent away for proper schooling, when it had discovered that there was a good mind in her, but no one had suspected the amour but Mr. Redgrave himself.

And yet, the same endearing bloom of love had begun to blossom not only on the estate of Thoreau, but behind the very walls itself. Despite the hours of amusement the young stable boy and Anne had provided for the master of the house before, this particular tale of youthful love had imparted little else but a noticeable pallor for Alfred Redgrave. And no sooner did he suspect it, not too long after the boy's arrival, did Mr. Redgrave find himself quite deep in distress.

As the garden began to flower, so did the attachment between Cecilia Redgrave and the boy, Smike.

He first began to notice this unusual devotion in his daughter's conduct, a month after Smike's arrival. The alteration was not so severe that any of the busy housemaids would discern it in her, but when it came to pass that Mr. Redgrave heard her languorous singing as she would sit a little longer before her vanity in the mornings, he began to observe her more closely.

Before the boy's arrival, Mr. Redgrave could hardly put a stop to her incessant chatter, which seemed the product of a long afternoon of reading, or of a most perplexing dream for which she sought counsel; but it seemed that Cecilia, at the dining table (where Smike, as a regarded servant, was not permitted), was much too involved in her own forbidden thoughts to share them.

Her countenance had been improved, her cheerfulness unavoidable, even if Mr. Redgrave himself had been opposed to it, and she took to absentminded behavior as she had begun to walk about the manor when Smike, whom Mr. Redgrave (a physician first, a business man second) had recommended rest as much as was possible, was asleep. It was only the beginning of alarming inclinations, and he was eager to dismiss them as the habits of a silly young girl, not yet sixteen and finding herself bereft of her books.

And initially, Alfred meant to cure Cecilia of her foolish inattentiveness by procuring more literature for her disposal.

But he found, as the weeks progressed, that the lack of her books was not the problem. Cecilia did not take to her books as quietly as he had hoped, when he brought them back from a short business trip to town. Instead, he found her reading them aloud to her companion as he tended her flowers.

It was the nature of these works of prose, and distressingly enough, poetry, that began to unveil Cecilia's intentions to Mr. Redgrave's sharp observation. Poets not at all like her love for Byron, but of Shakespeare's wistful serenades dedicated only to love and of its infallibility, were the subject of these afternoon readings. And the way she would let her eyes wander over the page and rest on Smike's pale face, as if entertained more by its quiet, humble mystique than the words before her, began to scourge Alfred Redgrave with a fear that knew no rest.

Smike, the wretched creature, though as kind and intriguing as he was, afforded no comfort for the master of the house in his own blatant affection for her. His adoring looks when she had turned away were more disconcerting to the older man than his daughter Cecilia's enchanted manner. Intermittently, at night, Smike would leave a flower for her on her vanity as she had come in from the library to replace her book before dinner. And each morning, Mr. Redgrave had come to find, she would discover the appearance of the delicate little bloom and savor its fragrance with a long inhalation, her eyes closed with a discreet smile curling the corners of her small mouth.

It was safe to say that, for Alfred Redgrave, observation that had once been his pride and his joy had become the very bane of his existence.

"You..asked for my presence here, sir?" Came a small voice from across the room.

He shut his book immediately upon hearing it, and turned in time to see the boy flinch at such a sound that would disturb the tranquil silence of the place. Mr. Redgrave smothered his amusement as he kindly waved the boy in, settling the leather-bound volume on the corner of his desk as he ambled forward, with such an unassuming pace, to meet his modest visitor.

"Ah, yes. I almost allowed my oath to slip my mind. I pray you'll excuse the habits of an old man; it seems as if age is a weary traveler, and he wishes to prey upon me, as is his partiality," he smiled briefly on the boy, easing himself into the chair behind his desk as Smike hobbled weakly across the room. "Dear boy, do sit. I do believe that, in surrounding yourself with books you shall learn from their very presence."

"Learn…sir?" Smike inquired softly, and seemed to bend as he sat down, a shy flower in the dim aura of the room.

"Why, of course Smike…to learn is to acknowledge one's abilities through…the medium of the human mind, and perhaps you may even discover qualities in yourself you might have not known if you had continued to live steeped in ignorance," he folded his pale, elegant fingers over the desk, leaning forward and narrowing his perceptive eyes in a way that would suggest inquisition. The boy before him was an enigma, and he was insistent upon unlocking the secrets that inevitably lay dormant behind the pale countenance and the fragile limbs.

"And since," he continued, removing his eyes from the cowering boy. "You have held so steadfastly to your duties as keeper of my daughter's garden and as her companion, I may only deem it necessary that I, too, fulfill my oath."

"Your oath, sir? I do not believe…" Smike seemed to smile, a hint of a blush on his pale cheeks. "That you have made an oath."

"I recall a certain ah…circumstance in which I found myself inclined to teach you the art of reading, but on the terms that you should acquaint yourself well with my daughter and her flowers. Do you recall?"

He bowed his head, nodding furiously. "Yes, sir. I do. Forgive me, for I did not remember…at…well, at first."

Mr. Redgrave rose, brandishing a sort of flair in his stature and walk that he'd once utilized in attempting to persuade a rather incorrigible client or acquaintance, especially when in regard to the rejection of is precious philosophies.

"No forgiveness, Smike. No forgiveness at all…you see, I only forgive those at fault and, considering the severe lack of encouragement and care on behalf of your _care_takers, I see only that it is their place to be contrite," he paused, looking down at the boy who, despite the kindness he had received from his new family, was unable to break his habit of cowering upon registering the height and formality of his superiors, whether in age or physical form. "You are here, are you not? And in exchange for your tending my grounds, and if you are to live amongst devoted readers then, well, you shall be immersed in literary culture."

Smike looked up at the man, much taller than he, and as he was given the ability to stand erect, unlike the innate bending of his own form, he seemed a giant to the boy. Even if he had been opposed to the idea of being taught to read, he could hardly think of refusing the man and his offer.

"I thank you sir…for your kindness."

"I'm glad to hear it! I daresay, you shall be a learned reader in a fortnight, as you seem to possess an air of intelligence about you. Certainly, you are a smart boy. You must be, if you have survived the cruelty of the Squeers for so long, eluding their treachery so artfully." Smike allowed himself one fleeting smile as Mr. Redgrave reached over his desk and retrieved the book with one pale, wrinkled hand."Well, I suppose I should confess I am relieved – you see, I grew rather fond in teaching Cecilia but…it seems as if she no longer has use for my instruction..."

What had first been a lighthearted speech on the enjoyments of educating drifted into less amiable territory. Mr. Redgrave seemed to sink into another world, and from the expression he donned on his wizened face, it was somewhere forlorn, abandoned to the reckless nature of emotion. But he seemed to emerge from the stupor, a half-hearted smile offered as an act of penitence, and he gently placed the leather volume into the boy's lap.

Smike had only a moment to glance at the simple black cover before the man before him spoke again.

"We'll start with _the_ _Pilgrim's Progress._"

* * *

Cecilia was never quite as brazen as her father. He had told her, once when she had asked why he behaved in such a manner that seemed so alien in contrast to her own conduct, that it was not in her disposition to be entirely irrational. She was merely rebellious in her intellectuality, undaunted by the standards of ignorance and muteness that most of the country men expected in their wives.

And so, as she sat in the garden beside her friend, a book nestled into the folds of her dress, she attempted to be surreptitious in the way that she stole glances at her companion. Often, she would abscond from the exquisite walls of the library, where she had once resided almost permanently in pursuit of her love for reading, and had taken to reading aloud to Smike in the garden while he tended the flowers.

Her father encouraged such activity as he began to teach the boy how to read, and told her that he could assist him in his education by indulging him with philosophies and sonnets and adventurous prose. And as Cecilia found herself drawn closer to the quiet aura of her companion, she could hardly find any reason not to spend her afternoons bathed in the warmth of golden spring and welcoming the soft, lulling breeze.

As she read, Smike was, at the moment, ensconced across the lush grass, a menagerie of colors surrounding him in the delicate forms of flowers. Their petals swayed with the motion of the coiling breeze, bending forward in the wispy grasp of the gentle wind as if to cordially receive its playful advances. Smike seemed the only still figure in the midst of such fervent movement, the grass tickling his bare forearms and the fabric of his shirt rippling, almost unnoticeably, with shy motions across his thin chest. Cecilia could not help herself from noticing that he looked an angel, lying beside her and clothed in his woven human guise, surrounded only by light and splendor.

She spoke suddenly, surprising even herself in the spontaniety of her own manner. "Smike, would you care for Shakespeare?"

He opened his eyes with a start, and they retained their indolence, staying half-closed. He smiled softly for her. "Yes, miss…if you would like to read it, I am your faithful listener."

"Fair enough, Shakespeare it most certainly will be," she replied enthusiastically, flipping through page after page, searching for a sonnet that piqued her interest. She at last found such a poem, and clapped her hand over the page, as if to claim it as her own. "Aha! Here, I have found perfection in words…"

_Sonnet 47_

_Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,  
And each doth good turns now unto the other,  
When that mine eye is famished for a look,  
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother;  
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,  
And to the painted banquet bids my heart:  
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,  
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.  
So either by thy picture or my love,  
Thy self away, art present still with me,  
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,  
And I am still with them, and they with thee.  
Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight  
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight._

Cecilia gave a wistful sigh, and she leaned back on her hands, closing her eyes in rapture as she greeted the waves of light falling over the rim of her bonnet. "What I would give for a match as devoted to love and poetry as Shakespeare! I declare it should be a great price indeed for me to reject such an enthralling companion."

Smike fidgeted nervously, and she felt instantaneously cruel as he asked, in the most heartrending of voices, "would such a man be the only one you would fall in love with, Miss Cecilia?"

She turned to him, only to be undone again by his pitiful countenance, drawn and pale and troubled. "Of course not, it would be intolerably silly of me, would it not? Merely fanciful rumination, and such insipid amusement of concept at that. Besides, why should I find myself wanting of camaraderie when I am so fortunate as to have you with me?"

He smiled on her, and relief flooded the depth of his pallor, filling with color what had once been blanched a ghostly white. "I am glad," he seemed to falter then, gathering his bottom lip to his teeth and lowering his gaze. "Would you be…that is, are you…inclined to read more?"

She gave a soft nod and he shifted a little closer to her, lying, again, on his back and retaining that same enchanting guise of a fallen seraph once more. His willowy chest rose and fell with the swell of a contented sigh.

For a moment, Cecilia was stricken with wild thought. As she drifted mindlessly through the pages of her beloved sonnets she glanced repeatedly at the boy lying beside her, his breathing slowly descending into the rhythmic, calming cadence consistent with the respite of sleep. At last, when she was certain of his oblivion, she put the book aside and looked on her companion with a gentle eye.

The time which Smike had spent with her had exceeded a month, and yet the day of his arrival seemed only as far as a simple yesterday, or a day before. At first, he had been so fearful, tautened as if to disappear into the depths of his skin if one so much as raised a hand in his presence, or happened to surprise him with their company.

Slowly, however, and with such ease, he integrated into their lives as though he had always been, or would always be, and her discovery of him was merely a question of fate. Her father had insisted upon his working as an indentured servant, to repay his debt, but it was still as if...he was always there, and would always be; he seemed to be the answer to one of many questions she had asked in her short lifetime.

_Who, I wonder, will be the first man I fall in love with?_

He was certainly no man. His svelte figure suggested otherwise, and the youthful cheek, not yet speckled with hair, proved he could have hardly surpassed her own short fifteen years. But there was something in him that was so mesmerizingly beautiful and wizened by time. Smike's character, at first an enigma in his steadfast shyness, had proven to be loyal and kind, a boy whose affection knew no bounds, if only he was given the chance to display it.

They were the same qualities which Cecilia had found in the heroes of her childhood books, stories her father would read to her by candlelight after dinner, exposing her to a world of Arthurian Legends and the mythological tales of ancient Greece and Rome. Smike's loyalty was the mirror image of Odysseus' faithfulness to his beloved wife Penelope in the face of Circe's temptation. And the kind devotion that was so apparent in the boy was of the same Sir Gawain, who wedded the unsightly Dame Ragnelle only on behalf of his honorable King's request.

The idea of her childhood heroes were the first concepts of men that Cecilia fancied herself in love with. But as she looked on Smike, sleeping so soundly in her shadow, she knew it was him that she loved.

It had not been an epiphany that confronted itself so readily. Steadily and quietly it had cultivated in the sihlouette of her doubt, suspended as vague as breath or air over every thought she harbored for him and resting in the back of her mind, where it remained unseen by her pensive wanderings. With the unraveling of Smike's shyness and the projection of his character, she found herself enthralled by his innate intelligence and his resemblance to the heroes of her childhood fantasy.

It was not until quite later, when he had been with them a month, that she found herself quite content with all of him. Her heart's desire was not defeated by his disabilities, his weakness, his frailty. It was behind the mask of humanity that she found the hero: a boy who would give all of his heart if only to be loved not for the shell of his being, but for what lay behind its hollow walls.

Startled out of her thoughts by a shallow intake of breath, she watched as his mouth parted slightly and his brow furrowed, ensnared by a perplexing dream. She acted out of impulse, out of instinct of fondness for him, and lifted her hand, brushing her fingers over his forehead to tame a wild lock of hair. It seemed to calm him, the simple, caring gesture, and she pressed the back of her knuckles gently to his cheek, feeling the mortal warmth thrum through the veins, his soft flesh like velvet, and it roused sensation in the skin of her hand.

Removing her hand from his cheek, she returned to her book, and searched with relentless determination through the collection of sonnets. At once, when she recognized a number, she halted, and began to read.

_Sonnet 116_

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments, love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove.  
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark  
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come,  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no man ever loved._

When at last she ended, and her voice carried like the sound of a solemn bell on the current of the wind, she looked over at Smike, finding him still asleep.

"I would ask of you, if you were with me now my dearest, gentle friend," she began, murmuring to his motionless form. "What sort of inspiration came to mind in witnessing the unparalleled beauty of Shakespeare's finest work."

His expression shifted, and she found herself encouraged by the scene. "But it appears to me as if your somnolent nature has bequeathed to me my own wonderful inspiration."

Turning to her sketchbook, which often lay in dormancy beside her, abandoned to the elements as a mere prop, she gathered the parchment into her lap.

And with her sketching utensil in hand, she began to outline the face of an angel, hidden behind the misleading mortal veil of a youthful, crippled boy.

* * *

During the course of the month which had provided the Redgraves and Smike with varying activity, there was also another man which contributed to the commotion. Mr. Nathaniel Pickett, of Ryderman's Hall, came often to the estate to dine with the family on many occasions, and with such lively manners that seemed to make the room glow upon his first step into the foyer of the great house, Smike had begun to look forward to Mr. Pickett's appointments with the family.

Mr. Pickett was a man of good fortune and breeding, and with such a handsome countenance to match his highly esteemed decorum, he had become a favorite amongst many of the younger house maids. Being only eighteen years of age and an income of three thousand pounds to his name, many of the Thoreau servants began to question his settling so comfortably into the anonymity of the countryside, when his eligibility would have made him most popular company in Bath or London.

It was on a similar night, one featuring the inclusion of Mr. Nathaniel Pickett in the dinner party, that Smike found himself standing before his mirror, watching the rigid reflection as if hoping it would change, if only he would look long enough, and hard enough.

_You may as well be included in the party, Smike; you are, after all, a well-behaved boy and will serve as Cecilia's companion for the night, for the girl can hardly do without you, as it seems you're a most vital friend to her. Ostensibly so._

For recieving such an invitation to dine with the family, and from Mr. Redgrave himself, Smike hardly felt worthy of having it. He could invest his gratitude in Cecilia for having some part in the decision, if not most, and gazing at the mirror, he wondered why she should ever want to be publicly disgraced by his presence. The nerves began to purge his quiet demeanor so slowly, and he mused, vaguely, if they intended to devour him alive.

There was the formless, yellow glow of the candle behind him, the fine coverlets spilling over the side of the bed and the floor seemed and endless pool of earth; but it was all merely backdrop, a scene which only added more fretfulness to the boy as his thoughts turned inwardly on himself. _It all must be a dream…a wonderful dream I know I do not deserve. All of them, they are so good to me. Like the women in the towns I used to see. It must be pity._

A knock echoed through the door and dispersed throughout the room as three dull _thuds_. Smike blinked, cringing only slightly at the unforeseen possibility of company. He knew that, in time, the survival instincts he had obtained to remain alive under the Squeers' care would crawl into a state of dormant uselessness; but for now, it remained a ceaseless bother.

But time was something he feared he would not have enough of, and a sort of malice hung in the air which could only be owed to suspicion.

_Not of them, no…never the Redgraves. They are too kind. _

_Then what do I fear? What is this doubt that follows my every thought?_

"Come…come in, please," Smike responded urgently to the soft knock, hoping to distract himself from his own plaguing thoughts. He returned to the mirror, as if to properly excuse himself, and watched the door swing open to reveal Cecilia in a lovely muslin evening gown. Lettie came in, bustling after her young mistress with what he expected was a keen interest in helping him dress in the correct manner. Smike had never fathomed that such a simple thing as dressing could be turned into something so complex. Before, he had only one shirt and one pair of weatherworn trousers to his name, and they were accessible enough.

"Now, now, Smike. Don't let yerself be daunted by all that fabric!" Lettie assured him softly, and began to fuss with his cravat that hung in wretched, undecided rumples around his neck. She tucked it into the collar of the shirt, which she promptly flipped upward. "There now, yer looking like a right gentleman already! And to think! Not so long ago, you arrived here in rags and nothin' but your handsome face to recommend you!"

Smike felt himself blush on receiving the compliment, and fiddled with his waistcoat, feeling Cecilia's eyes on him as he heard her stifle a chuckle for the boy's benefit.

"Here, I'll help ye with that too. Put up yer arms, now," Lettie offered, and Smike lifted his arms. Like thread, she guided the small, trembling appendages through the sleeves of the waistcoat, and it dangled off his thin form. She frowned most disapprovingly. "Well, I suppose Mr. Redgrave was a wee bit larger than ye are, my boy."

Cecilia entered the conversation as she stepped forward, offering her own opinion. "Perhaps we should entertain…other prospects for fashion, Lettie." She gave a small laugh and Lettie replaced herself as the girl moved forward, facing the book with a look of deep contemplation. After a moment, she gave a small _ah, yes _beneath the current of her breath, and said to the boy, "if I may…Smike?"

"Of course, miss…of course," he stuttered, flushing again as Lettie gave the pair a vague, yet knowing look.

Cecilia, however, could not be distracted from her work. Her brow cinched, ripples of skin forming and casting a shadow over her eyes; her mouth, too, pursed as she brought the jade jacket over his long, svelte shoulders. She looked fleetingly over at Lettie. "Would you acquire a matching cravat for this jacket? There are a lovely collection of them, I'm afraid, that sorely lack the attention they deserve in my father's wardrobe."

"Yes, miss," Lettie obeyed, and was like a flash of quicksilver as she stepped out of the room; she was gone before Smike had even a chance to watch her leave.

"You are anxious." She said gently, but there was a mark of inquiry in her voice that inspired Smike to give her an honest reply.

"I am, miss," he confessed. "But only that I should prove to be dull company, and trip over every word I speak."

She gave a small chuckle for reassuring his fretting nerves. "Nonsense," she countered, and flattened the ostentatious collar, spreading its blanched white fabric like preened feathers over his neck. "Every word which you speak is well articulated. And you shall not be dull company, as I assure you, Mr. Pickett will be excessively enraptured with the bleating of his own voice and hearing it to let anyone speak and exercise theirs."

The tendrils of contempt which spun their brittle weaves like thread into Cecilia's words were much too brazen to disappear into quietude without some notice. Smike began to brush his fingers over the jade jacket, hoping to transfer his tremors into the lovely green shade. "He is…proud, miss?"

She turned away, facing the mirror, and gave a soft, wistful sigh.

"Smike, will you not call me by my own name?" She inquired, her voice low and mournful. "Pray, is it so forbidden that it should not be spoken by your mouth? Or is it that you hold formality and detachment in high regard, and our companionship as a fragile boundary not dared to be crossed?"

He gazed longingly on the intricate composition in which her hair was captured. "_Cecilia_…" He murmured. "I would not wish…please, I could never dare to upset you. You are…that is, you…and your father…have…_saved_ me in every way that is possible."

Cecilia had not expected such a declaration of gratitude. And on the terms of guilt, she felt rather contrite, for her words had merely been a deterrent from the truth and of the mindset of a silly girl; she had not wanted to speak at all about Nathaniel Pickett, not even the personality that followed his person loyally, like an unhappy ghost and lingered in her, haunted her, for such gray and listless hours after the conclusion of his frequent visitation. It was not of love which Smike spoke of, but a different sort of devotion – of appreciation for all that her family had done for him.

Before she could reciprocate her own gratitude, for his instilling hope in her after hope had long since been lost to the scarlet-haired man that now chattered happily in the foyer downstairs, Lettie had returned with the cravat. She begged forgiveness for delaying so long, and Cecilia offered her quiet amnesty in response.

She returned to Smike, standing humbly before her when she could only think that he should be, by rights, a proud and noble creature. But as she caught sight of his crooked, gnarled ankles and the pale hands that trembled with nerves and weakness, she knew then the essence of unfairness in the world.

Its very depiction stood before her, recoiling ever so slightly as she reached for his collar and slid the dark jade cravat over his soft and slender neck.

* * *

As Cecilia predicted, hardly a word amongst the company was spoken that was not articulated by the cheerful fellow who sat across the way from the girl herself. Each received the frustration of silence differently, in their own method that suited their natures and made for quite an intriguing contrast amongst the table.

Cecilia, stricken mute by her duty as a woman, folded her hands in a delicate twine, her eyes focused unalterably upon the polished wood.

Her father, however, approached the situation that suggested both annoyance and vague apprehension. The raised brow was a rather brash manifestation of his disdain for happily chattering mouths and the pallor, easily mistaken for mere refraction of light in the presence of the slow-burning candles, his cleverly disguised anxieties.

Smike, however, was cheered by such unending blather, despite its abstract topics.

Never in his life had he been rendered a spectator to a man of innately eager disposition, and could not remember encountering anyone of either sex that could boast of an authentic contentment such as Nathaniel Pickett's. He watched with fixated absorption, his mouth curling into one intangible smile, distant in its languor, and his eyes ablaze with fervor and delight.

"And so, naturally, I declared to this man, who was quite placid in the face of my tale of desperation and familial famine, though I could not have blamed him if it were I that was to be swindled into selling his most prized sow for such miserable and offensively low funds. I confessed to him this - _You, _sir, are a fiend in his most disagreeable form! Have you not the decency to feign beauty, and deny the affairs of my dereliction then?! I have unveiled to you my sufferings, and that of my sister and of my mother, and yet you are unmoved!?"

Pickett paused with a charming laugh, and tapped his glass for Benedict to replenish with exquisite red wine. "Alas, that morning I returned to the house, bereft of that enviable sow. And I assure you, it was quite worth expending my efforts to acquire her, despite the failure of my endeavors."

At last, he paused to drink his wine, and Mr. Redgrave, affording Pickett's ceaseless chatter to a touch of inebriation, turned to Benedict. "There will be not another glass poured, Benedict, do I make myself clear? If God himself were to beseech you, you shall be _unmoved._"

Pickett looked rather moved to inquire most adamantly after Mr. Redgrave's censure, shrewdly disguised in his indirect order, but before he could mildly voice his opinion, Cecilia intervened.

"Sir, have you not forgotten that honesty is the essence of fortuity?" She reached for her cup, and raised her eyes to meet his. "To deny good intentions is to deny good fortune itself. Certainly a man of your…_stature…_would not be advised to gamble with the hand of God when his inheritance was only attained by the result of chance. Perhaps, if you had shown a quality of earnest to that poor farmer, you may have been rewarded later with another, more eniviable pig."

"Cecilia, you jest!" Mr. Pickett emitted a slobbery chortle into his wine glass. "I gamble not with the hand of God, and I assure you, _my dear_, that my dishonesty is all a jolly good joke."

Smike started at the lighthearted usage of the endearing term, casting a wary glance at Cecilia, who remained placid in the face of Pickett's dismissal.

"Nathaniel, you would be a fool indeed if you were to undermine anything which holds greater power over you," Mr. Redgrave quipped, and laughed as Pickett pursed his lips in almost undetectable loathing. "Why, he would sooner crush you as he would a lowly insect than permit you the freedom to misconstrue and distort his commands! Even if, as you have declared, it was all in honor of a good joke."

"Smike, dear lad, what have you to say?" Pickett turned quite suddenly to the boy, his expression of ambiguous disgust with Cecilia and Redgrave still apparent in the curve of his features. "Surely you harbor an opinion vastly dissimilar to that of your _friends_?"

Cecilia, however, recognized the assault straight away and, before Smike could allow himself to be deceived into the hands of such cruel speculation, she countered the man's question with a curt retort. "You, sir, are in the presence of the very nature of good! And to reward him for his honesty and loyalty and affectionate, kind heart, God delivered him from the hands of evil – and it was not on account of his ability, as you say, to honor a good jest!"

The entire table was stunned into silence, and Mr. Pickett suffered the greater part of the bewilderment. "You state your opinion rather decidedly of this boy here, Miss Redgrave," he stated softly, but there was a certain venom that coursed through his words. "If I were but a stranger, I would be forced to subject these high opinions of yours to…_unkind_ scrutiny."

The man across the table rose, his scarlet hair gleaming as fresh blood held within the ocher light. "I pray that you would excuse me, for the night grows old, and I will be missed in the parlor by my mother and sister, dear ladies that they are. They seem to never find themselves sated by my presence."

He cast then a look of indignation and disdain toward Cecilia, and only she bore witness to the long, cruel stare. Out of fear, she planted her hand firmly against the table. But in feeling the warm brush of skin against hers, she found Smike's hand meshed beside hers, and wrenched it away, feeling her panic dissipate slowly from her veins; a flush of discomfiture succeed the rather violent emotion.

Smike, too, flushed and felt the tingling in his hand linger long after the fleeting moment had been dismissed from _her_ mind.

* * *

Before long, Nathaniel Pickett had gone from the house. In a manner that betrayed his usual cordiality, he took his hat from a rather worn Benedict, and bowed to the master of the house. For a moment, his eyes strayed over Smike, returning, at last, to Cecilia as he took her hand and placed one chaste kiss to the skin there. Immediately, as if by an eagerness that took him forcefully, he dropped the hand and marched out the door ever so quickly.

The only sound that refreshed the dull spirit of the quiet room was an irrelevant coughing fit on Cecilia's behalf, and she, as well, took her leave of the foyer.

"Well, I suppose I have done it now, Mister Redgrave," Benedict quipped lightly, drawing a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbing his damp temple. "I daresay, it was my method of wine-pouring which he did not like and which drove him from your company."

Redgrave gave a light chuckle, and put his interlaced hands behind his back. "I must injure your pride for a moment, Benedict, in regards to your ability to…observe. But I believe you missed quite an affair, for you were engaged in tedious activity. No, Mr. Pickett is not so demanding of the method in which his wine is poured…as long as it enters his glass, he is a happy fellow indeed."

Benedict gave a bow and retreated to the kitchen, for his own dinner which, if Pickett had lingered longer in the company as the guest of the house, he would have unfortunately missed. At last, it was only Redgrave then, and the boy, Smike, who watched the mirror, drawn in by the reflection of his own pale, gaunt face and its shallow resemblance in the soft re-creation of the dimly lit, emulated image.

Redgrave recognized the hollow expression, and yet the eyes, so familiar in their forlorn wanting, contradicted that same void which filled his daughter's conflicted heart. "My dear boy," he said, appearing behind Smike in the backdrop of shadows. "A fair warning, for those who ready to embark on a war in which they shall never truly prevail."

The trance broken, Smike turned, his head bowed slightly as he slowly blinked through his sifted thoughts. "Yes, sir…" He began, and raised his eyes. "Your wisdom is…most vital to me."

The man smiled, and redirected Smike's face toward the mirror. "A man's heart is, by the most veritable account I may afford you, a no man's land. Enter into the realm of its vapidity and selfishness, and even the most prepared of men, of wit and sound reasoning, will be lost to his own foolish and romantic musings."

He paused for a moment, bringing the boy's hand to his head. "Let your thoughts rest where they may. But do not let them stray into the dreaded no man's land, or else they may never return to you."

"I do not…believe, sir…that I understand what you are saying."

Redgrave gave him a rueful smile, repentance and true regret in that small gesture. "I believe it may soon pass that, Smike, you will comprehend the meaning of my words. For now, they are hollow. But if God will forbid it…you will not fill them…you will leave them to rot in stagnancy, for you cannot say I have not endeavor to offer you fair warning."

And at last, with the formidable resonation his words left behind, Smike watched as the master of the house drifted into the anonymity of the all-consuming shadows.


	3. Chapter III: Refutation

It had been long since he first arrived. Not only thirty days, but sixty, and many a sun's rising and sun's falling was witnessed by him in all its colored magnifigence. Its beauty, at first, was a marvel to him, how the softened shades all seemed to embrace one another, and he quite liked to fancy that they lifted their faces to kiss each shaded cheek. Before long, the novelty of it began to fade into a much more gentle affection, and became a comfort as he would sit in the garden with Cecilia, looking up from her book and watching the customary greetings for the ever-changing sky.

The afternoon was quiet. No unwelcomed visitors came to trespass on the house and its serenity, and Cecilia could say with such certainty that not a soul besides Smike had made themselves known to her throughout the morning.

Little flashes of golden wings hovered over the lush grass, and butterflies took to perching atop the rose petals or swaying meekly over the stems of her lilies. The sun, in her mild temper, offered soothing light, but it was not enough to allay the discomforts of an intruding cough. Cecilia withdrew her handkerchief, and allowed her fit to pass with the hope of evading Smike's curious nature.

But, as she turned to assess his reaction to her coughing, she found him at peace, ensnared by the weaves of intangible sleep.

She could not blame him, for the fine weather seemed a lulling temptress in subduing the pursuit of monsters that came in the night. His body, frail and washed in incandescent light, lay stretched across the lawn, his hands strewn, in a slipshod manner, across his languid form.

Every so often, as she watched him, his lashes would flitter, and his brow would gather low into the sockets, throwing shadows where they did not belong. The weather had no remedies for troubling dreams, and so Cecilia, after a few terrible moments of hearing his fitful groans and watching his inescapable distress, took his hand into hers.

It was the only comfort she could afford, and though she felt the weight of the impropriety lay on her shoulders like boulders of guilt, she could hardly allow herself to watch him suffer. "Hush, now, my dear friend," she murmured into his dormant ear. "It is only a dream which frightens you. I am here….I am here, and never shall I leave until your words tear us asunder."

She drew a hand over his forehead, sweeping away a dark, stray hair. And in the midst of her dutiful grooming, she found herself entranced by the sweet softness of his skin. Her fingertips drifted longingly over the angles of his gaunt cheekbones, over the ridge of his jaw and finally, as his mouth parted, lost within his fitful dream, she brushed the pads of her fingers over his lips.

Only a moment did she allow such abhorrent indecencies endure. But as she found herself amongst the wistful wonder of her intrigue, she recoiled, and reached for a rose to keep her libertine hands from unearthing more trouble for themselves.

A few glances she cast toward him, but as the afternoon wore on, she did not let herself as near to him again.

* * *

It was a beautiful afternoon that Smike had missed, and he found himself unable to mourn the loss of its radiance. For instead, he found himself in the presence of such books, such writings that he could not yet understand, but would come to know intimately in due time. If only he had the ability as Cecilia, to speak with such enduring elegance and not be intimidated by the length of such words…he would have relayed his gratitude to Mr. Redgrave in every beautiful phrase.

The very same man to whom Smike had turned his thought entered the room, closing the door behind him with such gentleness as to not startle the boy.

Redgrave had learned from his infrequent observation of Cecilia's manner around Smike that a mild temper and slow, calculated movements were calming. And so, he extracted these movements from those observations, hoping he would earn a venerable trust from his ward, a boy that he dearly wished to learn more of and, mostly, have his affection.

"Smike!" cried Redgrave, who walked toward his desk to retrieve the book. "Why, my boy…has it really been so long since our last lesson? I believe Cecilia is quite selfishly hoarding all of your time for herself…"he paused, and Smike concealed a grin as the man looked him over. "By and by, boy, have you, dare I say it…grown taller? Or…is it that you no longer fearfully slouch in such an unholy manner?"

Smike bowed his head slightly, as if in entreating Redgrave to forgive his poor manners. "I do not know for certain, sir."

"Ah, yes well," Redgrave gave a hearty sigh and scoured the depths of his desk for the book. At last, he found it, and returned his kind gaze to the boy, "Perhaps you enjoy the presence of a lovely girl more than that of an old, whiskery fellow. Am I not correct in this?"

Smike laughed, and Redgrave found himself priding upon the fact that he had inspired such a delightfully sound of mirth from the youth. "I…I enjoy both your own and Cecilia's presence," Smike rubbed his hands shyly. "You are both…so very kind to me."

Redgrave eased into the tall lounging chair across from Smike, and looked on him with a kind and genteel eye. "You have been given everything that you deserve from us Smike," he replied. "You may know, from mere observation, that we are not a family that so readily confers their affection on merely any one who requests it. Selfish it may be, yes…but, in regards to you, it may be taken as a commendable feat."

"Thank you sir," Smike responded, and he looked so very mysterious in his impenetrable happiness that the master of the house, who was rarely impressed upon by any one person, was quite convinced the boy should have been his son, and his alone. "I will take it, if you are kind enough to give it to me."

Redgrave cleared his throat, and bestowed the volume on the boy, who took it with wavering hands. "There you are…yes, you have it," he crooned softly and watched as Smike rested the book in his lap. He felt a cold stab of pain stir in his heart as he watched the hand shake and the crooked, gnarled ankles curl protectively around the other. "Return to page..eighteen, if you please, and begin where we have practiced before…"

Smike then found the passage which he had marked as incomplete, and, as instructed, began to read aloud…

_There are Crowns of glory to be given us, and Garments that will make us shine like the Sun in the firmament of Heaven. There shall be no more crying, no sorrow, for He that is owner of the place will wipe all tears from our eyes. There we shall be with Seraphims and Cherubins, creatures that will dazzle your eye to look on them: There also you shall meet with thousands and ten thousand that have gone before us to that place; none of them are hurtful, but loving and holy; every one walking in te sight of God and standing in his presence with acceptance for ever. In a word, there we shall see the Elders with their golden Crowns, there we shall see the Holy Virgins with their golden Harps, there we shall see men that by the World were cut in pieces, burnt in flames, eaten of beasts, drowned in the seas, for the love that they bare to the Lord of the place, all well, and clothed with Immortality as with a garment._

The reading was a pleasant one. Smike had practiced the passage with such fervor and delight before that, though a few mistakes interrupted him now and then, and a few corrections of behalf of his tutor halted his reading as well, it had become very clear and a delight to the ears.

And when he was done, Smike looked up from the page, entranced by the words which he had read; he looked hopefully at Redgrave, his white hand still on the smooth, black-and-white page.

"You…inquire after some thing, Smike?"

"Yes, sir…it is…well, only that I," he sighed, and his hand traveled softly over the parchment. "I wonder if it is where my mother had gone, when she left me in her untimely death. At Dotheboys…they talked so often of Hell and torment and punishment that I often…I often forgot of Heaven."

Redgrave was indeed enthralled by the boys' simple statement, masked in its evasive inquiry. Smike had so many a question and hidden concept of life and death that had been left to linger in the netherworld of his thoughts, of his ignorance. Now that he was there, with his tutor, they were all unleashed in hopes of being answered.

The man eased into his chair, idly scratching his cheek as if to conjure a philosophy similar to Smike's inquisitive statement.

"Since I had not the pleasure of having your mother's acquaintance in her life, I cannot assure you, in certainty, that she is there now," he began, and immediately regretted his blatant honesty as he saw the crestfallen look on Smike's face. "But if I may, Smike…if she were even half the creature of kindness and loyalty and honesty and affection as you are…I believe she is the very angel of your guidance now, looking on you from her sentry in Heaven."

Smike's expression was alight with hope. "Then there is, sir…life after death?"

"I may detest myself for reverting to such commonplace phrase, Smike but…I do believe that life is merely one passage which leads us through the phases of existence. Death may only be the entrance to another experience entirely, and one not so frail and unkind as this one."

He emitted a small breath of restored hope then, of assurance. "I always wished, "he said, the corners of his lips upturned in a bright, encouraged smile. "But I could never know surely…there must have…that is, someone…must have seen me through my darkest days."

"I do believe there has been...that is, some creature of mercy and splendor, veiled and unseen by our eyes, but nonetheless there. And I must thank her for it, if I am ever permitted to enter the same world as your dear mother," Redgrave replied softly. "For the world should not be robbed of such a kind boy as you, and I could not entrust my daughter's companionship to any other."

And in a moment of sheer vulnerability, Alfred Redgrave removed the thought of his daughter's secret and her love for the boy from his mind. He suddenly wished so ardently that Smike were a more prosperous and healthy prospect, so that he could give Cecilia to him, willingly and happily, without the fearful regret of delivering his daughter and his ward into the slow and painful rot of poverty.

* * *

She had been reading to Smike, in the pale morning light before breakfast, when her father's summoning had reached her.

Benedict had arrived, looking rather pale and undone, as if unraveled to the core, a mere strand of ribbon-like soul shackled by flesh and bone. His words were not shaken by the unsettled manner he bore.

But Cecilia could see the small distress in him no sooner did he arrive.

"Miss Cecilia, you are desired in the library." He said, and was gone before she could give a proper reply, a wisp of smoke curling into a tempestuous wind.

Smike noticed too, and beseeched her to stay with him, the softness of his voice like waves through her heartstrings, and the crestfallen look that never abandoned the pale, lovely blue of his eyes remained in her too. She assured him, and took her leave, following the fading footsteps, left cold by their lack of his buckled, black shoes.

Before long, she found herself before the door, the same she had knocked on so many times before, asking for ponies, for ribbons, for lovely dresses and dolls and tea parties just for her.

She believed it was his turn for requests, and deep in her heart, as she entered the door with his approval, she knew it would not be a demand to be considered lightly.

"Cecilia, dearest," Redgrave looked on her sullenly, pulling his eyes away from the nurtured blaze in the hearth. "It would be best if you received this…no, these particular words in comfort."

Anxious, she at first hesitated to accept his offer, but found herself inclined to do so as he began to meander toward his desk. He was displaying his material proof, she knew. As a man of logic and a believer in the beauty of reasoning and material knowledge, he was hardly one to confront a conundrum without first knowing which angles it presented for his use.

But for what she was being confronted…she could only pray it would stay her heart's secret, and to her heart alone.

Redgrave, after bending to retrieve something hidden by behind his desk, let a little groan escape him as he returned to his full height once more. His arms were latched behind his back, holding a mysterious object which Cecilia was all too eager to remain ignorant to.

"Have you even an indication as to why I have summoned you here, dearest of mine?" He asked, and halted in his languorous wandering, looking an ominous shadow as he stood before the orange-washed light of the fire.

"No, sir, I have not." She replied, keeping her head low to escape his probing eyes.

"Then, I suspect you may not be acquainted with the owner of this…"He pulled out a portrait from behind him, displaying it before her and gently laying it across the mahogany table. "Rather remarkable portrait. The ah…subject looks a touch familiar, do you not agree, Cecilia?"

She did not look. All too well did she know the face in the painting, the seraphic beauty which, concealed behind the mask of a cripple, not many could percieve. Her father knew it and cherished its potency, and Lettie had fallen victim to its affectionate and exquisite charm as well. But for once, she could not bear to look.

"Look on the portrait, Cecilia!" He demanded, and his voice, heightening with a rise in temper, raised her eyes at last to the painted canvas. Smike's sleeping form, angelic and unmoving, met her tearful stare, but she hardly knew if she could explain its existence to her father.

"Is it not our crippled boy? Our dear and beautiful Smike?" He asked, and began to pace the room. "Have my eyes failed me in their perception, or is it not him that I see before me?"

Silence.

Despair.

"I demand your answer, Cecilia, or, God forbid it, I will strike you for this insolent manner."

His voice was so low and so menacing in the delivery of his threat that Cecilia was urged to speak out of preservation, and her eyes seeped their sorrowful tears. A gasp, and a sob, and she buried her face into her hands.

She could only hope that Smike had not followed her, that he did not press his ear to the door and hear his most beloved tutor's anger.

"It is Smike, sir," she said, releasing her face from her caging hands. "And I will declare with honesty that it was my hand which caused its existence."

Her father was silent, only a moment. And in this long, unsteady moment of suspended truth, he went to her, falling to his knees before her as she wept once more. Her hands, which shook, were gathered into the weathered crevices of his, and he looked on her with such fear that he swallowed hard against the growing hysteria.

"I beseech you, my daughter," he whispered, and she met his eyes, hers red from weeping. "Assure me that you do not love him. Assure me!"

She chewed upon her lip for a moment, biting back the honesty of her intentions.

But she could repress them no more, and she said to him, "I love him, father. I love the precious and beautiful creature, the dearest boy that the world could ever offer, and he has stolen my heart so earnestly, so softly, that I dare not request for its return."

Redgrave rose from his perch before his hushed daughter, paling and shadowed by the weight of the revelation as he allowed the truth to soak into his skin, to rot in him. He reached for the mantle, over the fireplace, and leaned against the comfort of the blazing hearth, drinking in its console.

Almost at once, he prayed for rum, for drink, to soothe the nerves which plagued his every thought.

For long moments, the room strayed into obstinate silence. Neither would speak, but only Cecilia lacked the courage to face her father's undulating rage.

"Cecilia, you…."He shook his head, and slammed his fist against the mantle. "You are a foolish girl….indeed, you are exceedingly foolish! Have you so easily forgotten your duty? To yourself and to Pickett, as terribly obnoxious I might declare truthfully in your defense, as he is? Have you so easily forgotten your…your _betrothed_?"

At once, Cecilia was caught in a rage, and flung herself from her chair. "I will not marry him father, I will not! I do not love him!"

"Love," he shouted in return. "Is not to be reckoned here! It is not to be thought of, or wished for, or permitted in the face of reason. You, as a wife, will be mistress of Thoreau and will be exempt from the destitution my death should have brought! I will not allow my only daughter, my cherished one, whom I love with all the heart I am able to give, to be thrown into poverty in the wake of my death. I will not allow it!"

Her knees gave way, weakened as her resolve stood firm against his fervent disapproval. "Father, please…please do not give me away to that horrid man!"

"And I suppose you want to marry Smike, then? Is that what I am to derive from your entreaty for mercy?"

She stared at him openly, without submission, seething with such anger as she'd never known before. "Yes."

Redgrave looked on his daughter with pity, his anger subsiding as he began to realize her anger was born of misery.

"And what life could Smike offer?" He questioned. "The life of a nurse in which you will waste away, nurturing his adverse infirmities? A life of poverty and sickness? If he were to die in the midst of his frailty, you, my dearest, would be rendered a poor maid."

But Redgrave did not halt in his pragmatic rebuttal. "And what of a child? It is uncertain whether poor, delicate Smike harbors the capability to conceive a child, and if such misfortunes were allowed to progress, should that child, God forbid he be permitted entrance into a world of mockery and pity, be reduced to a poor and fragile cripple – as his father before him?"

"I do not care! I love him, and all that I desire is the love of my dear companion for the remainder of my life," she declared, and felt the heat of her tears sting her pale cheeks. "I would rather endure a life of poverty, of destitution and ruination than be showered with the riches and silks and poisonous endearments of a pretentious and ruthless cad."

"Cecilia, he is a cripple! He is a pitiful creature, not to be married, not to give you children, but to be only bestowed with compassion and mercy!"

"He is not pitiful, father!" She retorted, her fury resurfacing in the face of his blatant disregard. "He has been dealt with badly by the world, and yet he is unchanged by its hand. For that, he is a hero, and for his loyalty, his sweet nature and his beauty – I love him. And not with reason or logic or medicine can you alter the will of my heart!"

Another bout of silence settled over the heated room. Redgrave looked on his weeping daughter, barely restraining her sobs, and began to feel sick himself. It was a long time before he could conjure the courage and will to speak to her, to reject her plea for the happiness and contentment he knew she so rightfully deserved.

"You will marry Pickett. He is to inherit this house, and you are to be his wife. I cannot allow you to marry a cripple and die a lonely old maid when he is taken from you early by sickness or accident. No, I fear you must think practically. Smike will remain here, with me, when you go. And that is the end of it."

Cecilia allowed her last, pitiful sob to escape her, and she released herself from the manner of her composure, fleeing from the room in a fit of renewed weeping.

And as her sobs faltered into the quiet of the house, Redgrave sank, utterly defeated, into the cushions of the sofa.

* * *

In the garden, there was peace.

It offered escape which no other place on the large Thoreau estate could replicate. The flowers, the grass, the memories of laughter and poetry and prose and soft gesture of friendship. Perhaps, Cecilia thought as she wandered through its veil which separated her heaven from its earth, the flowers could have been removed, the grass could die, the little white bench which she loved so dearly would disappear altogether, and as long as Smike would not go, she knew that the place in which she sat was one of its kind.

With red, swollen eyes, she looked on it.

The white picket fence, standing like the gates of Heaven around the fragile blossoms, surrounded the entirety of the flower-studded yard in its sunlit glow. So many flowers that defied the simplicity of monochromatic shades, roses of red, violets of blue, and lilies and peonies and patches of sweet-smelling heather. There was a small stone path, rather beaten by unkind feet, washed gray and darkened by the shade of a great apple tree, not yet bearing fruit, but freckled with the blossoms of spring.

And then her little bench – white and carved of birch wood, settled near the roses, not five feet from the gate, and the patch of grass before them was where Smike would fall to dreams, pleasant or cruel, as she read to him.

* * *

It had not been the hardest work he'd endured, certainly that was plain for even him to see. In fact, compared to some of the chores that Mistress Squeers had appointed for him, assisting in the stables seemed a walk through Cecilia's garden in contrast.

_Cecilia's garden_.

It had reminded Smike that he had not seen the mistress all morning, and had missed her at breakfast as he was summoned by Benedict to administer oat and feed to the horses, as the stable boy had come down with a terrible fever. Smike, though rather disappointed in missing one of only three times in the day he could converse with Mr. Redgrave for more than five minutes at a time, mutedly accepted the task and hobbled down to the stables.

He had rather enjoyed visiting the horses, as they were all beautiful, well-bred creatures, and gentle too; not one of them rejected a pat on the nose or a stroke on their long, sleek necks. He'd almost been sorry to leave, but seeing them so involved with their own food, their jowls working and their eyes soft, allowed him to leave without much regret.

Upon seeing the first glimpse of the fresh white paint of the picket fence, Smike pressed harder on his walking stick and arrived on the threshold of the garden. The bench was not vacant; he saw Cecilia there, her white dress, speckled with calico print, glowed in the light of the sun.

But the usual graceful posture that captured her form had abandoned her, and she sat with her head in her hands, her body looking woeful and broken in its frail, curving pose.

"Cecilia?" He called to her, his soft, lovely voice drifting over the current of the win, and as she received his mild address, she released her face from the comforting cage of her hands.

Her skin was flushed and her cheeks had been rendered ruddy and unevenly blotted from tears. Even her nose, untouched even by sunlight beneath the shade of her various bonnets, had grown bright red from uncontrollable sniffling; she looked a disaster, and the worry of such a countenance overwhelmed him. He hastened, pausing only to gently shut the white gate behind him. As he came toward her Cecilia began to awkwardly sift through her sleeves for a handkerchief, turning her face away from him out of the shame of her appearance.

Once he had reached the bench, he struggled to quietly ease into the spot beside her, as to not disturb the girl in her unrest. The walking stick was settled over the lush grass to rest at his crooked feet, and he took a clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket, extending the cloth to her as a peaceful offering. _I mean you no harm, miss…I want only to help you, _it said.

Cecilia took it gratefully, and rewarded the offering with her acquiescence. "Thank you, dear friend."

He almost dared not inquire, after seeing the aftermath of her tears, but his curiosity seized him, as if caught in a fit. "Cecilia…why do you cry?" He asked. "Have you…been hurt?"

Embarrassed by her lack of conduct, she briefly turned away from him again, as if to gather her wits, and a coughing fit ensnared her again. She blamed it on the relentless weeping.

"No, no," she told him, nonchalance in her voice. "It is nothing of great significance. Merely a…disagreement between myself and my obstinate father."

For a long while, he stared at her white, gloveless hand, and it shone like pearl in the light. Despite the urge to take it, as was the customary form of comfort that he had always known as a safe reassurance for the boys at the school, he knew the regulations of propriety that forbid him to resort to such reckless console. And so, he was reduced to a drone, a slave to his inner contender. _Dare I take it and risk her ruination if she be caught?_

At last, he shoved away all rumination on the matter and outstretched his own ashen hand toward hers. It trembled, out of weakness, out of fear, and hesitation plagued him as he tentatively brushed his fingers over the smooth skin, just under the shadowed knuckles. She recoiled and gasped, and Smike, out of habit, resorted to the small pathetic hunch that had been his sanctuary when faced with the school spoon, the wrath of the mistress at Dotheboys.

However, he was met with quite a different response to his endeavors than what he had expected by the girl.

She closed her hand over the trembling fingers and smiled at him in a rueful sort of way. "Thank you."

* * *

"Sir, would you be so kind…"Smike began, one afternoon during one of their many lessons. "To teach me to read a certain poem?"

Redgrave had been reaching for _The Pilgrim's Progress _when the request had been made, and had been quite intent on delivering the book to his student without any other thoughts of poetry or prose to delay his delivery. But upon hearing Smike's voice, and the earnest wish that he should learn something other than the prose of John Bunyan, he was entirely stalled and plummeted into fearful anticipation.

He gave a laugh to suppress the fear that spread through his old and somnolent veins. "Why…why ever for, my dear boy? Have you ehm…grown weary of Bunyan's venerable work?"

Smike shook his head, his mouth shaped into a small and similarly fearful shape. "Never sir…I…I would never tire of him but…I should like to be able to…very much…to read to Cecilia her beloved Shakespearean Sonnets."

And there it was. The declaration of requited affection that Alfred Redgrave had, many various times in his head, recited and invented before. And though it was not at all like the confession he had fabricated in his own vivid and rather wild imagination, he still found it suitably alike in the ways of a shy proclamation of love. From Smike, a timid creature who would rather unveil his affection slowly, patiently, it was a brash and cleverly furtive statement that would send Redgrave reeling from his hopes that the boy had been indifferent to his daughter.

Or so he avidly thought.

"My boy, it would be much too ah…complex for you, at least in this awkward stage in which you find yourself amateur. A wonderful amateur, I declare, and you are quite the avid and skillful learner, Smike! An intelligent creature indeed, however," he paused and bent before him, apology settling in his eyes. "Shakespeare's flowery, indulgent language would be much too difficult to articulate and comprehend in the…novelty of your erudition."

Immediately, the remorse flooded him, and he was forced to turn away, out of fear of discovery. He acknowledged the verity that Smike was no simpleton in mind, despite his lack of education or nurturing in his childhood, and Redgrave, though skilled with words and intellectuality, was never a master of his own emotions. Thus, he was ruined as a card player…and as a liar as well.

But then, just as he was to celebrate his own victory, he was defeated, his will scattered by the mere sound of such a heartrending and entreating voice.

"Please, sir…I would do anything for Miss Cecilia."

Redgrave, hearing the desperate sorrow and lingering in the boy's voice, turned to see an expression so pitiful, so hopeful, that he would sooner tear out his heart than allow such pity to purge his sound reasoning. But he relented, seeing the distressing look on the boy's pale face, and he eased himself into his sofa with a sigh, settling down beside the boy.

"Well, Smike…might I be offered at least a partial semblance of reasoning as to why I should educate you in the ways of Shakespeare's eloquent world of rhyme?"

"Reason, sir?"

"Why yes…whenever Cecilia is to request an indulgence, I am required, by my own determined and obstinate mind, to demand that she extend her reasons for wanting such a petty trifle," he replied, and lifted his shoulders, as a sort of dismissive gesture, as Smike frowned inquisitively, a reaction to his addling explanation. "It is a rather…customary game, of sorts. A battle of wits between us."

_I love her sir…I love her more than I could ever dare to love again. _

_I wonder, would that suffice?_

"It would….that is, for the both of us, sir," Smike began, and fumbled through his brain for the right clarification for his request. He felt secretly proud, to be permitted to play such a game that had been deemed a diversion reserved solely for the Redgrave family. "It would help to teach me and..and it would entertain and repay Cecilia…for all the prose and poetry she has read to me."

Redgrave laughed with such energy and mirth as the explication of Smike reached his ears that, at first, Smike feared he was being mocked for his words. But as Redgrave rose, still chuckling to himself in little peals of delight, and removed a small, thin volume from his collection, he realized his request had been accepted.

"Here you are, Smike," Redgrave said, a small, forced smile on his face as, at last, the laughter died away fully into oblivion. "I believe this is what you are referring to?"

As Smike took the small, leather-bound volume, he was so utterly devoured by the sight of it that he missed the unmistakable mark of guilt and sorrow which grew in the hollows of Alfred Redgrave's lined, weatherworn face.

"Which poem do you wish to learn?" He asked, sitting down, slowly, into the tall armchair behind him.

"I…I cannot recall…" Smike lamented, his fingers stroking the leather covering. He was silent, and at first Redgrave rejoiced in the boy's forgetfulness. It was soon decimated when Smike recalled and announced, 'Sonnet 116!' with such excitement he had never seen before in him. Though it was soft and quiet as gossamer sliding over naked hands, and hardly pronounced, it was still such sentiment he'd never seen so ardently revealed in Smike before.

_This is the end of it, I am sure of it now…I will never forgive myself for this._

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds, Admit impediments, love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the _remover_…to _remove_," Redgrave spoke quietly, mournfully, as he realized his own correlation to the poem.

_Am I to be deemed the remover of this love? Am I to be the villain, when all my hopes in the remainder of this life lie on the hopes that my daughter remains in comfort and stability? Am I to dash her happiness, and his as well…these dear children, one whom I loved all my life, and one…whom I have come to love as my own son?_

'_Love is not love, which alters when its alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.'_

_This love shall not be broken; I am to be the fiend…_

"Yes, I know it well," Redgrave cleared his throat, and bent forward, over the space which separated the two, to point to the first line. "Begin here, Smike…"

And as Smike read, as he allowed the words of such love to flow through him, Redgrave wallowed in his wretched secret and the agony of such horrid revelation.

* * *

Word of the disagreement between the master of the house and his headstrong daughter spread throughout the household like a wild inferno even for the few days after the actual occurrence itself, and each remark, like tinder to the heart, had its own fuel to add to the ravaging fire.

No one knew of the true nature of the dispute, and in their desperation to include their own good addition to the retelling of the story, most of the housemaids had taken to the finer details as opposed to the greater picture.

Some whispered that Cecilia had claimed her father was an 'insufferable and tyrannical cad', and swore to high heaven that it was on account of his intervention in the affair between the daughter and his young stable boy. Others recounted the father's cruel names for his impudent daughter, and that his disowning of her had been owed to her cruelty toward his favorite pet: the ward of Redgrave, a crippled boy who'd arrived not three months earlier and had been employed as the caretaker for the misses' garden.

If only they had known how entirely wrong each one of them had been in regards to the confrontation between the two.

Nonetheless, the gossip proved to be a most helpful diversion as half the household help convened in the kitchen to prepare for the dinner party to be arriving that evening. The rest arrived from the fields and the washing shack to set the decorations and candles in the formal dining area, chattering happily all the while.

But the servants were cunning in keeping themselves mute in the presence of their masters, and once the company had been let in, all was silent on behalf of the housemaids.

As the Picketts and the Redgraves, and young Smike as well, had all been settled in their seats, only Benedict remained behind to oversee the success of the evening meeting.

For once, the room was much too silent as Benedict commenced his usual pouring of the wine; at least it was considering that Nathaniel Pickett was present, sitting across from Cecilia Redgrave herself. He looked rather smug, casting expectant glances toward Redgrave, sitting at the head of the table as master of the house, that his mother and sister had missed.

Instead, the two female relatives, of the name Pickett of course, entertained themselves with surreptitious whispering amongst each other about the appearance of the strange young boy that sat so silently across from them.

The mother, Mrs. Mercy Pickett, and her pretty daughter, Abigail, had never, not once in their entire lives, seen him before. They'd only known his name from the initial welcome they'd received in the foyer on behalf of Alfred Redgrave. He was not dressed in such finery as Cecilia and Mr. Redgrave, looking quite simple in his dark blue overcoat and fresh linen shirt beneath. But it was his physicality they did not like; both Abigail and Mrs. Pickett had been quite opposed to his disability upon discovering his unseemly walk.

Redgrave did not percieve the whisperings, and as he took the first sip of his wine, looked to Pickett and said, "Sir, if you insist upon your relentless winking, I shall make my own insistence. Please, unveil to us your purpose in tiring your eyes, if it is not so needless as I should think?"

Pickett's grin resembled that of a leer, so wide and thin and unfriendly in spite of its intended honesty. He stood with his glass, as if to toast. "Indeed, you percieve this wrongfully my good sir! I have purpose, and I declare that it is as sound as any should be!"

"Indeed." Redgrave murmured, and indulged himself in his wine a little more. He should think he would need it, if the evening was to be suffered with the incorrigible young man and his unstoppable chatter.

The scarlet-haired youth gave an affable little laugh as he stood before the company, and began his speech. "To all of you, I make this most happy announcement, and I should hope that it will bring contentment and happiness to you all in regards to the feelings and comforts of our dearest Cecilia and, of course, myself," he paused, clearing his throat, and his mouth seemed stretched with its unruly enthusiasm. "In but a month – nay, perhaps a fortnight, Cecilia and myself shall be joined in the bonds of matrimony! Is that not such wonderful news?! Yes, isn't it so wonderful? I fear I shall die of happiness straight away!"

Mrs. Pickett and Abigail were not at all surprised, and in honor of the great declaration, they afforded the handsome youth a standing ovation.

Smike was the only one present at the table to be overrun with the awful shock of surprise.

He looked to Mr. Redgrave, who was greedily drinking the last of his wine and summoning Benedict to fill his empty glass, and then to Cecilia, who stared despondently at her empty plate, showing no contrition, no explanatory glance which only she, in her own mind, thought she owed in the least to her dear friend.

Smike felt no such obligation. Despite his own bafflement, he knew he should not have been so utterly astonished by the publication of the engagement. Cecilia Redgrave was a woman of affluent connections, of old wealth and good breeding, and her manners, though not of the most esteemed kind, were relatively acceptable amongst her peers. Could have he expected anything else of the girl? Anything less?

He was a mere drudge, and though they were equal in spirit, their social statures separated them in the reality of the world. Though he loved her, in the face of societal veracity he did not deserve her, nor deserve to ever look upon her without the intent to speak to her as a mistress and nothing more.

Not until then did the authenticity of his impropriety breach the borders of his unspeakable love, and as the women laughed and reveled in their celebration of the event across from him, Smike became instantly contrite. He felt that he had not even merited being amongst such good, wealthy company.

And so he rose, bowing very low to Cecilia and Mr. Redgrave as they watched him leave. The Picketts witnessed the small gesture too and, upon seeing the boy's departure, suddenly quieted, as if they had been spooked into submission by a most unhappy ghost.

Pickett frowned as he picked up his wine. "Have…I revealed too much for the boy? Has he been unsettled by such news, to lose his good mistress?"

Cecilia stood instantaneously, giving her female counterparts a hearty startling. They gasped, clutching the napkins to their mouths to conceal the frailty of their blushes, and watched humbly through their lashes as the girl lay her own napkin gently over her plate.

"I beg of you, all of you, to pardon my absence this evening but I – I feel as though I suffer a…a cruel flush and I am quite unwell," she turned to her father and addressed him. "Please forgive me. I must go."

He acquiesced to her silent beseeching, and mildly waved her off. The girl bowed and she took her leave, the two women behind her left in a flurry of hushed whispers.

"Why, if I have never seen such impudence in the presence of esteemed company!" muttered Mrs. Pickett, her eyes flashing with indignant disapproval. "If you had behaved in such a manner Abigail I should have done you a great hurt!"

Abigail, however, was quite enraptured by the girl's dress, and would not hear of the strained formality of her departure.

Meanwhile, Cecilia had reached Smike's room. She gathered her wits, taking one swift, encouraging breath, which refreshed her audacity to enter the boy's room without so much as a chaperone to supervise the visit. She knew she should not have even entertained the idea of such improper endeavors, but she knew Smike deserved her explanation. It was the least she could offer, in the face of her own unkind deception.

She gave a knock on the door and his soft, sweet voice permitted her entrance.

As she walked inside, she saw that he had regained his composure. The surprise had, at first, overwhelmed him, but as she looked on him now she could find no traces of such bafflement. In fact, he looked pleasant, kind, and welcomed her with a countenance that suggested laudatory congratulations, though touched by weariness. He had removed his blue dinner jacket, and it lay smooth and unfurling over his coat rack near the window while he lay quietly on his bed. Cecilia could not endure the appalling obscenity of even considering sitting on his bed with him and, instead, brought up a chair to his bedside.

For a moment, she was silent, perching like a porcelain doll in her perfectly straight posture, drowning in the lace and satin of her evening dress. He seemed to look on her expectantly with such soft, compassionate eyes, and in the candlelight, Cecilia secretly mused that she had never seen eyes as beautiful as his.

She drew one hasty breath, and said, "Smike, I beg you…permit me a moment to enlighten you...I know that I have not been entirely truthful on the matter of my engagement to Mr. Pickett."

He shook his head. "There is no need for it, miss."

She found herself stricken dumb by his abrupt dismissal, and her hands, in response to his detached reaction, furled uneasily in the folds of her dress.

He smiled, and it was such a whisper-thin sort of gesture that, if Cecilia had not looked hard enough, she would have missed the curling edges altogether. "I am happy for you. I…I am, truly."

"Smike…." She replied, feeling tears breach their borders. "Smike, my dear friend, please…will you not listen to me?

Smike frowned then and struggled to raise himself from his indolent repose. Once he had comfortably settled into a sitting position, he looked at her, rather confused by her words. "I need no explanation, miss. There is nothing for it," he said, and there was nothing but the light of his eyes to suggest the presence of life in him. "If you are to be happy, then I shall be too…and I am quite, for the both of you."

She found herself quite hurriedly discharged from his presence.

There was no spite in his release.

Dejection, certainly…but there was not a hint of brutality in the way that his voice flowed through her ears, pierced her heart. What hurt her most, however, was the regression of his calling her…he had addressed her as _miss_ again.

Directly after the expression of his wish for solitude, he turned away from her, his body twisting until it faced the window, and she saw nothing more of his face. It was what he wanted most…for her not to see the unleashing of his true sentiments in regards to the announced engagement. Jealousy was foremost in the procession, with fear and hurt and desperation soon after.

It was anger that was the meager of the company, and it was so vague in its appearance that it seemed more irritation than downright fury. He could hardly be angry with her, or even him for that matter, if she was to be happy. But he could certainly invest envy in the man that would have his beloved's heart, as precious as it was.

He could only hope that Nathaniel Pickett endeavored to deserve such a cherished gift.

Finding herself immersed in his rejecting silence, she rose dutifully from the chair, hoping he would turn and face her…hoping he would do something, do anything to quell the fear in her that she had lost him for eternity. And she found herself wishing that some sort of emotion would manifest in him. Anger, disgust, sorrow…anything but the ambiguous indifference which claimed his posture then.

But she could not see the veracity of his emotion, and for that he was thankful.

"Goodnight, my friend," she whispered, and swallowed hard against the growing mound of misery in her throat. She bent toward the candle, and it was snuffed out by her one strained, weak breath.

The light was dispersed from the room, reduced to mere shadows as her silhouette glided noiselessly across the room. With one last look, she closed the door behind her, and Smike settled into his head deeper into the goose feather pillow, listening intently to the fading sound of her footsteps across the wooden floor.

* * *

It was in the grey hours before early morning, on the threshold of the passing of cold, dreary night, that Cecilia woke from tumultuous dreams.

In them, there was the slow, vague malice of alteration and the permanent separation from her father and her friend that was depicted in such vivid and aloof violence. She could not escape them, could not evade the scarlet monster in the terrible dream, and so she woke with a start, her heart thudding in her chest like the slow, padded resonation of footsteps across a shadow-strewn floor.

For a long time, minutes that could not be measured by mere afterthought or deliberation in her muddled head, she lay there, staring at the pale ceiling, washed in the light of the sterling stars which flooded her drowsy windowpanes. But the pain of the dreams seemed so lucid in presentation when she had been caught in between the worlds of waking and slumber; the pain did not allay, only stumbled on until it allowed itself to become a dull ache, and she found herself climbing out from the warmth of her coverlets, reaching for her the rumbled black fabric of her housecoat nearby.

She hardly knew where to go, where to wander to when before, it had appeared to her to be the most obvious concept in the world. When such dreams had come to her in the past, she wandered toward the library, to lose herself in the candlelit worlds of pirates and princesses and poets stricken by the muses of love and loss.

The most obvious place of comfort now was so forbidden, no longer open to her like the books of the library or the console of the moonlight through her windowpanes. Her comfort lay asleep in his bed, fragile legs sprawling across the linens and his breath like whispers in the darkened room. And she longed to hear it, the ease of his breath; she longed to see him, drowned in his peaceful sleep.

And so, she disregarded the admonishment of her teachings of manners. She tied the housecoat over her, securing the knot as she crept into the drowsy corridors; in his room, she stole across the floorboards, illuminated by the glow of the moon. Her chair still remained in its solitary sentry, watching over the delicate creature in his sleep, the frail angel wrapped in a film of reveries.

Once there, she took over the guard of the chair and eased into her former perch. He lay on his side, facing away from her, and his dark hair was made silver by the beams that filtered through the glittering, white-washed panes.

And in that moment, she felt the tears consume her. They filled her, like a flood unleashed from the hands of God himself, ridding the world inside her of its filth and its iniquity. Only the purity of her affection remained, and she was besotted by that strange and elusive angel in his crippled disguise.

She could not understand the sorrow that filled her, the tears that riddled her cheeks with a formidable chill and unyielding heat. A coughing fit rose in her, and she struggled to contain it as she began to weep.

_Where are you? _She reached forward, her face glistening with tears, and touched his unmoving shoulder. _Come back to me. I am in need of your warm voice, your sheltering kindness._

But when she had shaken him, and he had not stirred, she surrendered to her tears, burying her face into his arm and allowing them to flow freely into the skin of her most beloved.

_Where are you, Smike?_

_I am sorry…I beg your forgiveness, though I do not deserve it._

_Come to me…please, come to me._


End file.
